tail flicking...

Synchronicity is always strange. On a hike recently, it seemed that almost every bird I saw was flicking its tail. As I stepped out of the door, a small flock of English Sparrows lit at a small puddle of water. As soon as their wings closed, their tails flicked up and down a few times. English Sparrows are a neurotic lot, agitated by fear and uncertainity. No sooner had they begun to bathe one noticed me and as one the group flew up into the nearest oak. One came back down, and again it flicked its tail, looked every direction and then panicked again.

I looked around for other birds. A Mockingbird teetered along the rock fence nearby. It kept peering into crevices, and as it did so, it fanned its tail, quickly closing it, and fanning it again. Looking up at the English Sparrows, it jerked its tail to all points of the compass. This common behavior did not surprise me. I watched it for several minutes, as it picked something tiny off of the rock surface. When I chased it off by investigating the identity of its pursuit, I found nothing that could have drawn its attention.

Water Pipits have been few and far between this winter. Only a handful was found on the annual Christmas Count, which by the way, produced the fewest number of species in over 30 years. (The drought, you know.) I was very surprised to see one on the cleared pasture. Normally pipits are found walking along the shores of bodies of water, such as the pools out at the alfalfa farms watered by Midland sewage water, or along playa shores. Unlike most other birds, it walks, one step at a time. Ducks, roadrunners, and quail walk too, but most hop. This one stood in the middle of the field, pumping its tail and its whole nether half, bouncing up on its toes.

A half-dozen great-tailed grackles lit near the pipit. My stomach lurched, as I immediately thought of the winter roost of these noisy and messy blackbirds on the south side of Midland Memorial Hospital. Two male grackles started parading, tipping their beaks up to the sky and half-lifted their wings as they strutted. When they closed their wings, up came their tails, pointing at the same angle as their beaks a minute before. The pipit exhibited the same prejudice I felt, and flew off, heading to the east and open country. It was probably headed to the exurban farm fields and livestock lots.

Over the years we have built several brushpiles to provide cover for birds and small mammals along the fence. In the brushpile closest to the gate, a Bewick's wren popped up to fuss at me as I squeaked and spished. (A birdwatcher kisses their hand, making loud squeaks, and then hisses, to sound like an upset barn owl.)

Bewick's wrens, like most wrens, are quite officious and indignant about strangers acting bizarre or getting too close. He hopped to the highest branch and started acting like a basketball player doing defensive drills, running in place and turning quickly in 45 degree angles. As it fussed its high chittery notes, it twitched its tail in rapid movements, up and down, up and down. Nothing else came out of the brushpile, so I moved on.

By the windmill, a meadowlark flashed the white sides of its tail several times, then launched itself with a few quick wingbeats to soar over the fence. The foolish thing could have remained motionless and remained hidden, since its plumage is the same color as the haybales (for mulch) stored there. The flash of white makes them quite conspicous, but it probably serves to distract an aerial predator such as a harrier, so it might attack the tail rather than the body of the meadowlark.

I moseyed on around the pond. For some reason, a Sora Rail was walking along the pond. A sora looks like a dark colored chicken, but it keeps its stubby tail cocked most of the time, lowering it as it pecks in the muck for dragonfly larvae and snails. The underneath side of the tail is a bright white, so its plumage serves a similar purpose as the meadowlark's. Most of the time, soras are almost impossible to see, as they clamber through the cattails in the marsh. To even know of their presence, a birder must clap loudly to startle it, so it will reply with its loud whinny it gives when disturbed.

As I watched the sora, a ruddy duck swam from a hiding place under the bank of the pond. They too cock their short stubby tails, even at rest. I hope this one sticks around, for in the spring their plumage turns a deep russet, and their bill glows turquoise in morning light.

A tinny chink of a noise drew my attention the small grove of wild plums. A verdin, all gray with a yellow cap hung almost upside down from a branch. It flexed its tail toward its belly as it struggled for balance. In the flameleaf sumac above the plums, a ladder-backed woodpecker pressed its tail against the tree trunk when it stopped to pound its beak to dig out boring beetle larvae.

Tails are such useful appendages. We poor humans, lacking so woefully, can only admire.