A flock of dark-eyed juncos and I lived through last Saturday’s nor’easter from opposite sides of a glass door. For me, that wasn’t a challenge. But for these tiny creatures, how do they survive 24 hours of cold temperatures, fierce wind, and snow?
While a few juncos live in New England year-round, flocks from Canada appear in winter, hence their nickname of “snowbird.” But Donald and Lillian Stokes in their “Guide to Bird Behavior” suggest that their nickname derives instead from their plumage of slate-gray hooded backs above white bellies— “leaden skies above, snow below.”
A junco prepares to take off with a sunflower seed. (Photo by Thomas Kilian)
This flock of 20 or so was composed of brown-tinged juveniles, some dark gray males, and females who were not as dark as the males.
In addition to their plumage, Roger Tory Peterson says in his “Field Guide to Birds” the feature that most characterizes these small birds is the flash of the white outer tail feathers as they fly away. When the birds are standing or sitting, the white tail feathers may not be visible.
To survive, they needed food, so I filled the hanging feeders with seeds and suet. The feeders attracted a downy woodpecker for a few nibbles at the suet; a titmouse or two who stopped by; and two or three blue jays that made several forays through the falling snow. A brilliant cardinal and his mate showed up a few times. But it was an entire flock of juncos that congregated on a patch of ground where I sprinkled handfuls of a blend of wild bird seeds.
During the snowstorm the seeds would frequently become covered with snow or sink into it. The juncos hop backward to clear off the top layers of snow with their feet to expose the seeds. They were constantly moving—fluttering, hopping, and pecking the snow. Their intense activity may have also helped to keep them warm.
In midafternoon a deer wandered through and seemed curious about the little birds gathered on the ground. It lowered its head until its nose was at the level of the birds and looked closely at them for a few seconds. The birds seemed aware of the deer but didn’t change their behavior. Finally the deer gathered up some seeds by licking the snow and then regally walked away.
Besides food, the juncos needed refuge to rest from their activities and for protection from the elements. Periodically they took turns flying into some nearby holly bushes or the rhododendron. They also flew in and out of a space under the front steps, between the shrubs. I could imagine them huddling together throughout the windy night in those places of refuge.
Being in a flock offered protection in numbers and they were pretty orderly—no fights or aggressive displays. They seemed to communicate frequently, even appearing to chirp to one another when replenishment was being sprinkled on the ground. There was a steady claiming and yielding of space at the food, with short flights or hops in and out of the congregation.
Suddenly they all disappeared! Then I saw a big pair of light-colored, outstretched wings bank before landing in a tall pine tree. A few minutes later I saw the big bird again, flying through the branches of trees in the distance. It must have been an owl or a hawk—I’ve seen and heard both here. As though on an all-clear signal, the juncos quickly returned to their patch of snow. With some birds and animals, you can see them watching the sky, but the juncos moved so quickly I didn’t notice that behavior. Maybe they took turns being on lookout.
As so often happens after a storm, the next day was a bluebird day: sunny, bright blue, an almost cloudless sky, the atmosphere calm, the snow sparkling.
The juncos were out again. But they seemed different, maybe a little tired. Some appeared to be lounging in snowy divots, sunbathing. Others sat with their wings propped out, like little tent flaps. Their hopping and jumping seemed less frenetic.
I left my observation post, put on my snowshoes, and went outside to tromp in the snow.
