We'll

remember this as the Winter of the Geese.

For the

first time in the 15-plus years since the ponds behind

our house were filled, Canada geese have wintered on

them. The pied-billed grebes and ringneck ducks we

usually see there have not appeared, although they are

reportedly plentiful on Lake Peachtree.

Only

recently have we begun to see a fairly stable presence of

mallards, by the way, for the first time since their

mysterious disappearance about this time last year. Maybe

in past seasons there was not enough food in these weedy

ponds to feed geese in addition to the ducks we had then.

This year, despite the best efforts of the grass-eating

carp, the geese are finding food aplenty in the shallows,

and more than making up for the decline in the ponds'

population.

Their

comings and goings are always loudly trumpeted, a

twice-daily source of wonderment to us. We have this

theory that the voice boxes and wing muscles of geese are

connected, accounting for the close association between

noise and flight. Since Canadas pair up for life, you can

just about bet that a small flock, especially if odd

numbered, is a family rather than unrelated birds.

For most of

this winter, we've had two flocks, one of five, the other

of 14 birds. They compete aggressively with members of

the other flock for the cracked corn we occasionally take

them. Every evening, almost exactly at sunset, they crank

their engines, and with mighty strokes of pinions take to

the air, bearing toward the big lake or circling toward

Loghouse Pond to spend the night.

And in the

morning, in that silvery light that comes just before

sunup, they herald their own return and the return of the

day. Descending on parafoils, with a last-moment

outstretching of feet to brake forward motion, they're

ready to begin the day's business of eating, preening,

bathing and defending territory.

The books

say males and females are alike, and indeed they do

appear so, formally attired, but in fact the gents are a

bit larger. Look at their necks especially: his is quite

thick and sturdy, hers amazingly slender. And did you

know that that characteristic Canada goose cry is

actually voiced by two birds? The Stokes' Bird Behavior

series describes the call the male uses to keep in touch

with his mate as a robust "ahonk." The female

utters a higher "hink."

The calls

are almost always given in perfect sequence so that few

people realize they are hearing a well-synchronized duet.

Spare me your stories of geese nipping runners and small

children. Domestic geese may, but wild Canadas do not.

Besides, these won't be here long; they'll very likely

move further north to nest. Enjoy them while they remain.

We know the

birds that come to our feeders like any good restaurateur

recognizes regular customers. They are easy to please.

Thaw and freshen the baths, keep suet, peanut butter and

cracked corn coming, and we have a happy band of titmice,

chickadees, cardinals, towhees and nuthatches. Of late,

the yellow-rumped warblers have come, joined frequently

now by goldfinch, house finches and red-winged

blackbirds.

But this

winter we've also occasionally fed a family of crows.

We've always liked crows. They're smart, and

smart-looking, and when they come near the house we love

to watch the energetic way they commit themselves to

their caws, watching cautiously, while they fold and

refold their black umbrella-wings.

They're not

interested in the feeders or the fallen seed, but I found

something they do like. What do you commonly see ol'

Corvus Brachyrhyncus eating? Right. Smashed squirrel,

right on the street. Taking a clue, I wedged the carcass

of a holiday turkey in a branch and for several days we

watched six glossy black crows feasting with surprising

daintiness, until nothing but bare bones remained. (Don't

worry. We won't do this in warm weather.)

The excited

cawing of a flock of crows is sure notification of a hawk

nearby. But since this is not nesting season, and the

crows are not protecting chicks, I suspect they mob large

predators just for fun. No hawk handy? Not to worry.

Several times this year, we've gone to check out the

commotion and found our raucous friends harassing a

bewildered-looking great blue heron trying to nap in the

top of a tree.

It's easy

to hear music in the spring flute-song of a wood thrush

or the energetic repetitions of a Carolina wren (which

one of my bird books calls "the Pavarotti of

birds"). But do you ever think of a crow's sharp

bark as music?

Neither the

paired phrases of a brown thrasher nor the honk of a

goose is a conscious song on the part of the bird. He's

simply staking out turf or communicating with birds of a

feather. We're the ones that assign worth based on human

standards of beauty. Pity.

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