Birds will head to Mexico for the winter
While the civilized world seems to struggle in turmoil right now, the natural clock of ages faithfully ticks on.
As another August slips from the calendar, the beat of nature goes on, and the happy visitors to my summer garden are hearing the call to launch them on a journey south.
We can’t hear this call, but the hooded orioles do, and they are eagerly preparing to return to some preordained place in Mexico for the winter.
These beautiful birds have added color, sound and joy to Mt. Whoville, as they have for thousands of other bird lovers throughout Southern California who provide food, water and nesting sites.
A week ago, I began to notice fewer brightly colored males, and this week the males are gone. This is typical, with males leaving first, followed by females and the late-crop juveniles.
For the past few weeks the orioles have been feeding aggressively at the nectar feeders, quibbling and cackling as they always do. It was a time to fatten up for the journey ahead.
They have heard the quickening call and seem a bit frenzied as they feed with purpose.
As bird migrations go, it’s not a long trip, perhaps 1,500 miles at most. They will spend the winter in southern Baja California, or in a narrow strip along the western edge of the Mexican mainland from Los Mochis, south into the state of Oaxaca.
They will not breed there but will return here next springs to build nests, lay eggs and raise the next generation of young.
This seems like an early departure year. In some years I have recorded feeding males as late as the third week of August, but this year I have not seen a mature male since Aug. 10.
I’m sure those who study birds have more answers, but it does make one wonder what unseen force signals them that it’s time to leave?
While there are increasing reports of hooded orioles overwintering because birders are providing food, the rhythm of nature still pulls most the birds south.
Perhaps it’s the lack of natural food, or some sense of coming seasonal patterns, but at any rate, it’s a bittersweet time when these beautiful creatures no longer brighten our gardens.
The beauty and joy they bring to our hearts will be missed, and that’s the bitter part. Yes, we know they will be back, and that’s the sweet part.
We eagerly await their return each spring when the early vanguard of males arrives in the last few days of February. Soon, greater numbers of males and females will fill our gardens with color and song by mid-March.
They will busy themselves collecting fiber from palms to build pouch nests that are woven under protective fronds. These glorious orange, yellow and jet-black birds will also bring delight as we watch them bicker, hang upside down, or perch on the highest point of nearby shrubs and fill the spring air with their delightful melody of whistles, chatters and warbles.
Gangly youngsters will swell the numbers at the oriole feeders, and they will grow and mature as they prepare for their first trip south.
As I watch the remaining female orioles feeding, I ponder their coming migration and life cycle. What force has determined when and where they migrate and their lifespan?
Near the oriole feeder is a potted succulent with clusters of yellow and red blossoms. Each flower blooms for a single day, but the next morning the wilted flower is replaced by a fresh, new one.
The colorful orioles “bloom” every spring in my garden and are here until a hint of fall is in the air. The flowers exist for only hours.
Perhaps it’s better to simply enjoy the different cycles than to dwell upon the reasons.
There are other critters on Mt. Whoville who are sensing the seasonal change. It might be close to 100 degrees out there, but there is something in the air that even I can feel.
Swallowtail butterflies seem a bit more intent as they float from flower to flower on the lantana hedge. The coyote pups who share our mountaintop setting are no longer accompanied by parents. My game camera sees them alone now, playfully seeking their own food and preparing for winter.
The quail chicks that were fuzzy little walnuts with legs a few months ago still visit my ground level water dish, but now they are scrawny teenagers and no longer doted over by attentive parents. Next spring the youngsters will be bringing their chicks to drink and scrounge for seeds dropped by other birds from the hanging feeder.
These are dependable and comforting cycles and allowing yourself to embrace this rhythm brings inner peace. That’s something we can all use.
Sit and see for a while. Watch and listen to nature.
There is comfort in the ageless metronome of the seasons.
