I’m freezing my butt off. The forest is attracting more skiers than birders. But I’m looking. I’m drawn deeper into the snowy woods by a bird call.
I’m not good on bird sounds. This is a whirring. I figure a chickadee or nuthatch. I see a Red-breasted Nuthatch, although I’m not sure he made the sound. But I’m satisfied. Compared to the White-breasted this bird’s less usual.
And I see too many American Robins for this time of year. I think of them as Snow Robins and figure they don’t migrate because winters aren’t so bad any more. They’re no longer the first sign of spring.
My theory is probably bunk. This was pointed out by a birder who said these Robins came from the north to winter here, while ours went south. We’re probably both right and wrong.
As I was walking through the snow, freezing, I thought: how come we never see frozen birds? Seems like a bird would just drop from the cold, old age, anything, and we’d see it on the snow.
I recalled that the only frozen bird I ever saw was a Scarlet Tanager in June. I used to know an artist who painted good pictures of birds. He was excited to find a dead tanager in the woods. It was deep red and black. The artist wanted it as a subject so he kept it in his freezer. It would keep forever. A stiff tanager in a baggie.
I thought of this as I hiked, stiff with cold myself. I wondered what happens to birds when they die. Even in summer we rarely see their bodies. Whatever happens, I’m against keeping them in freezers, even if a good artist immortalizes them. I just don’t like the idea of a tanager staring out from behind the ice cream.
