Flying foragers bear harsh winter

A flock of huge crows attacked the stale stuffing I tossed on the snow out back, leaving not a crumb for the other birds.

Speaking of “Crumbs to the Birds,” Charles Lamb wrote in that poem: “A bird appears a thoughtless thing … no doubt he has his little cares, and very hard he often fares, the which so patiently he bears.”

So I was distressed at the greedy crows; they go on scavenger hunts all the time, pecking open plastic garbage bags or snatching up morsels here and there left by litterers. Not so the smaller birds such as nuthatches, titmice and chickadees that flit in and out of the snow-covered cedar bushes with their beaks stuffed with sunflower seeds from the feeder.

The birds this winter Down East have fared hard, as Lamb said, with the heavy layer of snow hiding any frozen berries or seeds for that matter. Only one day recently, when the sun was melting icicles and sheets of snow were sliding from the metal roof, did the chickadees around here whistle joyfully. Most of the time, they’ve performed their acrobatics from one perch to another without any friendly song.

The nuthatches hanging upside down on the tree trunk poke their slender bills into the fluorescent orange bait bag draped over a limb and stuffed with suet.

Particularly this year, the birds have enjoyed the fatty suet even more, it seems, than the seed. In one larger feeder, there is a mixture of seeds and cracked corn that attracts not only blue jays but mourning doves, which shuffle along on the snow, finding the corn the jays and squirrels have spilled.

Just last week, there was a sure sign of spring ahead, and my eyes opened wide to see several pine grosbeaks cracking seeds as fast as I could blink. At first, I thought they were early purple finches – way too early and too big – then decided they were male grosbeaks when the duller females joined on the birch tree. It has been years since I’ve spotted grosbeaks in our spruce and fir forest; long ago, the bright yellow evening grosbeaks would suddenly appear in late February, hang around a couple of days and then the flock would fly out as quickly as they came.

Every now and then – and for no known reason – the backyard will be covered with hungry grackles before a noise startles them into flight. Then, a lone woodpecker will work a tree for a while before disappearing.

I keep a watch out for all the birds and promptly refill each feeder, trudging over snow mounds or wading shin-deep through fresh snow on my front and back paths. At the dining room window feeder, a red squirrel bully hogs the seed.

And overhead in the gray skies are the constant soarers – the raucous crows, the crying gulls and one solitary, silent eagle that circles the house like a low-flying plane.