Last week I wrote about Wrens and, from the feedback I received, it was a popular subject … as a postscript to that piece here is a comment that my wife offered after she had read the article:
He has forgotten another Wren story: one spring I found a small nest a couple of feet off the ground, buried in the twigs. It was lined with ginger fur; we had a ginger cat at the time. I presume the cat left loose fur when he crawled through the hedge, but as he was a rather daft creature, I couldn’t help imagining a wren pulling the fur off his body.
A Flicker came for Breakfast
Noticing Nature #26 - The Veery and other Thrushes
As the continuing series of simple introductions to different species of almost everything reaches the six month landmark I was sitting there wondering what to talk about this time. As you know, insects have been dealt with as have flowering plants and we are currently treading the road through the world of birds. I was looking for something rare but then a couple of American Robins appeared in the snow covered garden and flew down onto one of our feeders. “Of course,” the little man in the back of my brain said, smashing a fit into his open palm “Thrushes!”
Thrushes, you are probably wondering. “I thought you meant we were going to deal with Robins?” I can hear you say. And we are, because not all thrushes have spotted breast and American Robins are grossly misnamed - they are really Red-breasted Thrushes.
When Europeans arrived in North America four hundred years ago, they had a tendency - Taxonomy was not a science back then - to name unfamiliar birds after familiar ones from home. The American robin’s rusty-red breast matched the European robin’s distinctive coloring, so the name stuck. By the time scientists like Linnaeus began systematic classification in the 1700s, the name “Robin” was already entrenched in colonial vocabulary.
To further complicate the differences, while American Robins are Thrushes (Family Turdidae) the European Robins are Flycatchers (Family Muscicapidae). Whoever thought this made sense. The similarity in breast coloration is a result of convergent evolution, not common ancestry.
But nobody, however new they are to birding, needs help in identifying a Robin when it lands on their feeder after a snowstorm. So I am going to spend the rest of this week’s Noticing Nature in looking at just one of the genuinely spotty thrushes - one you may never have seen, but perhaps have heard. The Veery.
Veery
Pretty well all of the species of Thrush are forest birds that that can be hard to see because of their camouflage in dappled light. They like to seek food on the ground for the most part around near the ground and amongst leaf litter looking for food. Not always easy to see, but you will know they are nearby by their unmistakable, flute-like, two-tone calls. There are some 170 Thrush species in the world, of which possibly a half-dozen might be observed in my part of the world.
They tend to share a common body shape - rounded bodies with relatively long tails and sturdy legs adapted for walking on the ground. As we know, many species show spotting on the breast and belly, but not all spotted birds are Thrushes. Look for white or pale eye rings and slightly decurved bills with which they can probing soil and leaf litter. While foraging on the ground they typically hop rather than walk, using their bills to turn over leaf litter seeking insects, fruits and seeds depending on season.
I mentioned the unique song of many species. Unlike mammals that have a larynx, birds produce sounds in the syrinx, which is placed at the base of the trachea just where it splits into the two bronchi. The syrinx in thrushes allows them simultaneously to produce two independent tones. A fundamental frequency from one side of the syrinx and a harmonic or counter-melody from the other. Thrushes are particularly adept at fine motor control of the muscles involved, allowing for the smooth, sliding glissandos characteristic of their songs.
Anyway, the Veery. Nice birds, spotty breast/throat, but not very spotty for all that.
Veeries lack really distinctive markings - mostly they are simply a “generic thrush”. Their name derives from their call characterized by descending flute notes (”fee-bee-oh” or “veer-veer-veer”). Look for them in dense understory, noting that they are very secretive. The Veery is a Neotropical migrant that winters in South America and is considered to be a forest interior specialist, and one that is a good indicator species for habitat quality. If they are present, then the habitat is in good condition as they require large tracts of contiguous forest to breed successfully. Their preferred habitat includes moist deciduous or mixed forests with a dense understory, ideally with nearby streams or other wetlands and thick regenerating shrub layers
Males arrive on breeding areas in the spring, before the females, and set up territorial boundaries. To protect their territory they use behaviors such as chasing, snapping their bills, pointing their bill up accompanied by an upward stance, flicking their wings or tail, and emitting a high pitch whistle. Nests are placed on or near the ground or occasionally on the tops of shrubs. The females do all the nest building starting with a platform. The nest itself has three layers; an inner layer of fine fibers and wet leaves, with a cup like shape for the eggs, and the two outer layers consisting of bark and twigs. Keeping this nest together are the adhesive forces caused by the use of wet leaves and twigs
Veeries travel further than most Thrushes and winter in central and southern Brazil, with some populations reaching as far as Bolivia and Paraguay. This means a 10,000–12,000 km round-trip has to be made each year, making them one of the longer-distance migrants among North American songbirds.. Veeries appear to be able to sense approaching severe weather systems and can adjust their migration timing to avoid the worst. Studies involving banded individuals show strong fidelity to specific breeding territories, with individuals returning to the same area year after year to breed.
I found a children’s book (“The Legend of the Veery Bird” by Kathleen Hague) that tells an origin story about the Veery. In which, a timid, stuttering young man named Veery receives help from a benevolent Keeper of the Forest, who creates a bird with a beautiful voice to comfort the world. The story promotes kindness, transformation, and the magic of hidden song. It’s described as a “bittersweet story of the magical origin of a common songbird.”
Indigenous Algonquin and Abenaki legends describe the Veery’s distinct call as guiding lost hunters back to their villages, and teach that attentive listening to the bird’s song can lead one home. The Veery is also known as the “singer of the twilight,” and said to embody patience, renewal, and the promise that the forest’s spirits are ever-watchful.
Dog walking
A Different Aesthetic
Going gardening again today while waiting for the snow to depart. About a week ago, I read a lengthy article (or, by the author’s admission, a “rant”) on Substack that seemed to be saying that some of those who advocate for native plant/wildlife gardens are bullies and purists who decry the traditional garden aesthetic.
Maybe. Anyway, I added the following comment BTL:
Very interesting - here’s my take:
I am in my seventies and have been gardening since the age of about ten when I “studied” under the tutelage of a grandfather who had a lawn and flower borders in front of his house and a large and productive vegetable garden at the rear. Over the gardening years since - 30 years in England, almost 30 in eastern Canada, I have gardened both traditionally (borders and lawns) and lately, I am gardening specifically for wildlife. I am not a purist, but I am a biologist by profession and I realised that what I want in my garden in my declining years is wildlife - birds, chipmunks, foxes, butterflies, as many species of bees as possible. I also want flowers to look at and trees and bushes that bear fruits. Perhaps 80% of my garden is planted with native species plus some choice horticultural specimens (roses, hydrangea etc) where they will thrive. I emphatically do not ever again want a useless lawn which is a waste of good growing space. My native flowers produce seed heads that stand through the deep snows of winter to feed wildlife. There is time enough to clear them in mid to late April after the snows have gone when golden rod, Joe Pye weed, coneflowers, black eyed Susan and various asters, among others, are starting to emerge anew. We have a garden list of about 125 species of birds in the years we have lived here, some 80 of which we see annually - how many do the lawn-keepers have? Those people who moan that the birds never visit them - because I hear that a lot. The birds have a reason, they know what they need.
But each to their own. If you want a traditional garden then I won’t criticize you and yes, they can be quite wonderful. But please don’t suggest that a wildlife garden without a lawn is “scruffy” when it is simply a different, less tightly controlled, aesthetic. I could as easily comment on many, many traditional suburban gardens. The ones that are mostly extensive monoculture, sterile lawns. Too often mown to within an inch of their lives by contractors rather than their owners and with very few “interesting” plants at all, native or exotic … and those often abandoned to sink or swim once they have been planted.
Whatever your personal gardening vision, native plant/wildlife focussed/traditional may be - if you have a garden then for heaven’s sake do some actual gardening. Get your hands dirty. Have a thought-out plan/design to work to. Don’t just plonk things down without consideration. You know, do the stuff that makes you a gardener.
Simply nailing my colors to the mast 😉
The World Needs Bad Soil
Sleeping Bees
I too often see social media posts about cute bumble bees “sleeping” inside a flower. Let’s get it right - that’s not what they are doing. Quote:
Bumblebees don't sleep like we humans do, but when conditions are unfavorable, like cold temperatures or downpours, they enter a state of low metabolic activity called torpor to save energy. In those situations, crocuses are perfect hideouts because they close up tightly when there is no sunlight, and essentially function as a living kiln, harvesting the weak late-winter sun to bake their own heat. The cup shape of the crocus reflects sunlight into its center, acting like a parabolic heater, so that the interior of a crocus can be up to 10°C warmer than the surrounding air, creating a tiny heated "spa" for early bumblebees. On top of that, the bumblebee is safely hidden within the petals and has easy access to nectar. If you find a bumblebee snugly sleeping like that, it's better to let it be. As soon as the sun hits it, it will vibrate its wing muscles to warm up and fly off again.
That is taken from:
Footnote:
Occasionally I do not have a good enough personal photograph of a specific species that I am writing about. On the principle that a picture is worth a thousand words I will occasionally turn to AI tools to generate, under considered and careful prompting, an original illustration that has the features that I wish to share. This avoids copyright infringement. Any pictures of my own that accompany my articles are always available free for others to use for non-commercial purposes.
Thank you for the reference!
Glad to see someone else appreciates the stealthy veery whose lovely calls used to echo in the woods behind my house back East.