Avian Soap Operas
June 1st, 2014
So Sedge Wrens are kind of dastardly.
They are also rare and elusive. They breed in moist tall-grass meadows, where they spend most of their time creeping through said grass. The only time when you really have a hope of seeing one is when it sings. The song at least allows you to hone in on the spot where the wren is creeping through the grass, or, if you're lucky, it might come up a short distance into a bush or onto the top of a tall stalk. The urge to declare territory and/or catch a female wren's eye may briefly overrule the urge to stay hidden. The best time is before the sun is up, or shortly after. These shy birds seem to shrink away from full daylight.
For some reason, they are also very nomadic. A colony of Sedge Wrens may spring up in an area one year, and then disappear from that area for years thereafter for no apparent reason. The going theory among scientists is that good habitat for Sedge Wrens is a very particular and transitory thing, and even a slight change in, say, water level may render a meadow uninhabitable to them. I have an alternative theory, one which also explains why they are so secretive and maybe even whey they are so rare: other birds hate them.
They really do. That by itself (the hate) is more than theory, it's something I've established from repeated observation. I first noticed it back in May of 2012 when I heard a singing Sedge Wren in the Nortel wetland. It was in an odd spot, just a small area of fairly short grass across the trail from the marsh, but I was confident of the ID. A Common Yellowthroat flew towards the song, there was a confusing aerial kerfuffle, and then two birds flew off with one in hot pursuit of the other. Thereafter, there was no more Sedge Wren song. I never saw the bird well enough to list it.
I came back to the spot many more times hoping to see the wren. I even came back in spring of 2013 hoping it would pass through again. Each time I brought a recording device and played Sedge Wren song in hopes of drawing one out. I never got a response from a Sedge Wren, but boy, did I get a response from the other birds! I got scolds, alarm calls, birds flying at me, birds perching in the open and looking in every direction trying to find the singer. The skulking but ever-vigilant Common Yellowthroats were guaranteed to emerge from the undergrowth and give me beautiful looks at themselves whenever I played back the wren.
Why? Because Sedge Wrens are bad neighbors. They are in fact terrible neighbors. These adorable four-inch birds with their delicate staccato songs are little avian sociopaths. They will sneak into the nests of nearby birds (even fellow Sedge Wrens) and methodically puncture every egg. They don't do it (near as we can tell) because they particularly like the taste of eggs. They do it to reduce competition for resources. If their neighbors have no surviving young to feed, that's all the more food for the Sedge Wren's babies. So the birds who share habitat with them have long since evolved to recognize them as a threat. They will do everything they can to dissuade the wrens from settling down to breed.
So--it's a stretch, I know--but could it be Sedge Wrens are so nomadic because they need to burn bridges now and then? That once the area birds are wise to their tricks, adept at harassing them and interrupting their egg-puncturing rounds, it's then time to move on to a fresh batch ofvictims
neighbors?
I'd been trying to lifelist this elusive bird for seven years. So when I heard that up to three males were singing in a meadow near the Nortel wetland, I grabbed my scope (the alternative to wading through dew-soaked thigh-deep grass) and rushed out to look for them in the very early morning. I was not disappointed! Over the course of an hour I managed multiple good views. To anyone hoping to do the same, I would offer a few bits of advice: go out there at sunrise or even before the sun is quite up, bring a scope if you have one, and pay special attention to bushes and other elevated spots--they do sometimes ascend when they sing, though they rarely come completely out in the open. And lastly, if there are other birds in the meadow who are acting agitated, follow their eyes. They may be as interested as you are.
This morning I watched as a Red-Winged Blackbird and a robin converged on a bush containing a Sedge Wren (which I could hear but not see.) The instant it dared to sing, they both made their way down towards it, with clear hostile intentions. Its defense: clam up and lay low. Few things are less findable than a Sedge Wren clamming up and laying low. As I watched both birds sit there in the middle of the bush with their eyes glued on the grass below, waiting for it to pipe up again, I was struck by how much they and I resembled each other, the flummoxed birds and the flummoxed birder.
They eventually gave up and left. I didn't. And after the coast was clear, the sneaky Sedge Wren began to sing again.
June 1st, 2014
So Sedge Wrens are kind of dastardly.
They are also rare and elusive. They breed in moist tall-grass meadows, where they spend most of their time creeping through said grass. The only time when you really have a hope of seeing one is when it sings. The song at least allows you to hone in on the spot where the wren is creeping through the grass, or, if you're lucky, it might come up a short distance into a bush or onto the top of a tall stalk. The urge to declare territory and/or catch a female wren's eye may briefly overrule the urge to stay hidden. The best time is before the sun is up, or shortly after. These shy birds seem to shrink away from full daylight.
For some reason, they are also very nomadic. A colony of Sedge Wrens may spring up in an area one year, and then disappear from that area for years thereafter for no apparent reason. The going theory among scientists is that good habitat for Sedge Wrens is a very particular and transitory thing, and even a slight change in, say, water level may render a meadow uninhabitable to them. I have an alternative theory, one which also explains why they are so secretive and maybe even whey they are so rare: other birds hate them.
They really do. That by itself (the hate) is more than theory, it's something I've established from repeated observation. I first noticed it back in May of 2012 when I heard a singing Sedge Wren in the Nortel wetland. It was in an odd spot, just a small area of fairly short grass across the trail from the marsh, but I was confident of the ID. A Common Yellowthroat flew towards the song, there was a confusing aerial kerfuffle, and then two birds flew off with one in hot pursuit of the other. Thereafter, there was no more Sedge Wren song. I never saw the bird well enough to list it.
I came back to the spot many more times hoping to see the wren. I even came back in spring of 2013 hoping it would pass through again. Each time I brought a recording device and played Sedge Wren song in hopes of drawing one out. I never got a response from a Sedge Wren, but boy, did I get a response from the other birds! I got scolds, alarm calls, birds flying at me, birds perching in the open and looking in every direction trying to find the singer. The skulking but ever-vigilant Common Yellowthroats were guaranteed to emerge from the undergrowth and give me beautiful looks at themselves whenever I played back the wren.
Why? Because Sedge Wrens are bad neighbors. They are in fact terrible neighbors. These adorable four-inch birds with their delicate staccato songs are little avian sociopaths. They will sneak into the nests of nearby birds (even fellow Sedge Wrens) and methodically puncture every egg. They don't do it (near as we can tell) because they particularly like the taste of eggs. They do it to reduce competition for resources. If their neighbors have no surviving young to feed, that's all the more food for the Sedge Wren's babies. So the birds who share habitat with them have long since evolved to recognize them as a threat. They will do everything they can to dissuade the wrens from settling down to breed.
So--it's a stretch, I know--but could it be Sedge Wrens are so nomadic because they need to burn bridges now and then? That once the area birds are wise to their tricks, adept at harassing them and interrupting their egg-puncturing rounds, it's then time to move on to a fresh batch of
I'd been trying to lifelist this elusive bird for seven years. So when I heard that up to three males were singing in a meadow near the Nortel wetland, I grabbed my scope (the alternative to wading through dew-soaked thigh-deep grass) and rushed out to look for them in the very early morning. I was not disappointed! Over the course of an hour I managed multiple good views. To anyone hoping to do the same, I would offer a few bits of advice: go out there at sunrise or even before the sun is quite up, bring a scope if you have one, and pay special attention to bushes and other elevated spots--they do sometimes ascend when they sing, though they rarely come completely out in the open. And lastly, if there are other birds in the meadow who are acting agitated, follow their eyes. They may be as interested as you are.
This morning I watched as a Red-Winged Blackbird and a robin converged on a bush containing a Sedge Wren (which I could hear but not see.) The instant it dared to sing, they both made their way down towards it, with clear hostile intentions. Its defense: clam up and lay low. Few things are less findable than a Sedge Wren clamming up and laying low. As I watched both birds sit there in the middle of the bush with their eyes glued on the grass below, waiting for it to pipe up again, I was struck by how much they and I resembled each other, the flummoxed birds and the flummoxed birder.
They eventually gave up and left. I didn't. And after the coast was clear, the sneaky Sedge Wren began to sing again.
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