This little guy showed up last week. He was here last year, and he and his cohorts showed up at the feeder once more, showing off his fancy headgear. He's a Harris sparrow, I'm told, named after a good buddy birder of John J. Audubon. Don't know if other Audubon friends got their own species, but this guy still has the name.
That they're part of the sparrow family is unmistakable, but the differences seemed so slight that I couldn't help wonder whether this was some kind of molting thing, that our fine fancy feathered friends were just getting decked out nicely for the prom. No, they're a special breed, unique, I guess, more than a little weird, staying around the mid-plains region as long as anyone, then packing their bags and going waaaaay up north to the tundra to breed. You read that right: they do their finest grooming where it's really cold. Does that make sense? They're not snowbirds. They're the only species that breed only in Canada.
Researchers say that bib they wear isn't just a fashion accessory. The size determines where they stand in the power structure. If you're plentifully endowed, you get first dibs on motel rooms and what seeds you can find beneath feeders--bigger the bib, wider the clout. I'm not making this up.
It's still dark outside, the sun's got some distance to cover before it emerges out east. When I look out the window, all I see beneath the feeder is shadowy movements, most of which--when I look close--are Harris sparrows. Nice to have them around with their little black hoods and their disheveled plumage.
The word is, the Harris sparrow's numbers are in decline. Don't know that anybody knows why. I better go fill up the feeders.
This morning thanks are for all creatures great and small, even and maybe especially, the little Harris sparrows.
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