Identification:The Eastern Bluebird is a small thrush with mostly blue feathers. It is light reddish brown on the chest, and has a white belly. Adults are a little over five inches. It has a cheerful call which can be heard here. Females are a bit more dull and grayish than the males.
Bluebird Habits
The bluebird is a lover of border regions. He particularly likes to perch at the edges of fields, meadows, or lawns. He can be seen making numerous short flights across these spaces hunting for insects. Numerous bluebirds are often spotted near specially constructed houses or "blue bird boxes" built to accommodate their needs. These are sometimes grouped along trails, allowing for ample sightings. the Sialis diet is not too different from what you might imagine for a typical songbird; various bugs, seeds, berries, the odd worm etc etc. Common wisdom maintains that meal worms are a species favorite, and that providing these can be instrumental in attracting bluebirds to a yard.
The bluebird is a year round inhabitant for much of the lower northeast, but ranges farther north in the summer. He is not averse to roughing it a bit, and can be seen enjoying snow in quite a few photos. His mating arrangements are rather liberal, resembling what some might call "open marriages." Pairs generally keep up appearances by sticking together for the kids, but take bluebird lovers on the side.
The bluebird is a year round inhabitant for much of the lower northeast, but ranges farther north in the summer. He is not averse to roughing it a bit, and can be seen enjoying snow in quite a few photos. His mating arrangements are rather liberal, resembling what some might call "open marriages." Pairs generally keep up appearances by sticking together for the kids, but take bluebird lovers on the side.
The Bluebird of Happiness (or Despair)
It's no wonder the blue bird has been pegged in the collective imagination as herald of all things joyful. The sight of an energetic sialis in full flight, his plumage sparkling in the morning sun, can soften even the hardest heart. Watching his short bouncing flights from fence to roof, to branch to wire over cropped fields stirs our spirits. We recall, or even feel for the first time our own sense of resilience and optimism. This is all well and good.
As you first begin to engage more fully in nature, quieting your movements and opening your eyes to your surroundings, the presence of bluebirds will become more apparent. You will spot them where once you saw only trees, wires, or "birds" of a generic and undistinguished manner. So many are content to stop here. The bluebird will make you smile. Its giddy call will be ataractic, lulling you with the seductive whisper "all is well."
My friend, all is not well. Nature's avian display of innocence and light bears us bittersweet tidings of joy and grief. While he seems well established and secure in his numbers now, the bluebird's history is one of tragedy and loss. To know the full measure of his sorrow, we must hearken back to earlier times.
Centuries ago the eastern woodlands of North America were variegated with a dazzling array of brightly feathered birds. On late summer afternoons flocks of sunny goldfinches weaved through the balmy air, narrowly avoiding collisions with scarlet tanagers and blindingly orange northern orioles up for their seasonal visit from the lower Americas. The azure bluebird was right at home in this psychedelic avian mix. True, here and there some duller sorts crept in. The grackle was never far off. The loathsome brown-headed cowbird ever threatened the sanctity of nests. Yet by and large this was a perfect time to be a charmingly colorful songbird.
Alas, this idyllic landscape was soon marred by the encroachment of some particularly reprehensible European birds. Notable among these are the house sparrow and common starling. Both were intentionally introduced in order to bring a bit of old world culture to the "new" continent. In the starling's case, their introduction was part of a deranged scheme to bring all birds mentioned in William Shakespeare's work's to America. If only one of Shakespeare's eloquence were alive to lament the darkening of our skies with dismal flocks of these unsavory creatures.
These winged stormtroopers of drab were relentless in their advance. They bullied, harassed, and overran our native species with gleeful abandon. They were particularly cruel to our innocent bluebird, usurping his nests and driving him from his ancestral home. Had they mastered the use of tools they would no doubt have put his young to the sword and salted his fields.
The bluebird population declined. He became less and less visible. Soon children were born for whom he was but a story, a portrait in a field guide. Fortunately, conservationists and bird enthusiasts found new hope for our embattled friends. Specially designed birdhouses were erected that keep out the hated starlings and house sparrows, and provide sanctuary to bluebirds.
Gradually the bluebird's numbers increased. Nowadays they can be seen flitting about by any observer with a bit of patience and knowledge of where to look. Still, all is not well. Our backyards still teem with invasive sparrows. While the bluebird maintains a healthy population, his sightings fall within the more common backdrop of plague-like starling flocks, sometimes stretching from horizon to horizon.
Thus, the bluebird bruits happiness, but also sorrow. We feel rightfully blessed when seeing him alight, but our joy contains the seeds of grief. We know his life is precarious, and he perches upon a razor's edge. On one side life; carefree, full of song and delicious insect meals. On the other; oblivion. We see this and it tasks us. Will we look within ourselves and see our own mortality? Will we see the fleeting nature of worldly pleasures? Will we learn to live fully, allowing both the joy of creation and the grief of loss to flow through us like ocean waves? Or will we fall? Perhaps raging against the starling horde, and the house sparrows' song of death. Or perhaps blinding ourselves to the pain; contorting our faces into pantomimes of grotesque but inauthentic happiness; ignoring the gorgeous frailty of nature in favor of chipper platitudes or modern convenience. Though the perils of obsessive gloom seem well marked, we must recall the Dane's sage warning that "for despair the most cherished and desirable place to live is in the heart of happiness." And so, the bluebird sighting does more than just momentarily lift our spirits. It brings face to face with ourselves, and calls us to probe the deeper mysteries of humanity.
As you first begin to engage more fully in nature, quieting your movements and opening your eyes to your surroundings, the presence of bluebirds will become more apparent. You will spot them where once you saw only trees, wires, or "birds" of a generic and undistinguished manner. So many are content to stop here. The bluebird will make you smile. Its giddy call will be ataractic, lulling you with the seductive whisper "all is well."
My friend, all is not well. Nature's avian display of innocence and light bears us bittersweet tidings of joy and grief. While he seems well established and secure in his numbers now, the bluebird's history is one of tragedy and loss. To know the full measure of his sorrow, we must hearken back to earlier times.
Centuries ago the eastern woodlands of North America were variegated with a dazzling array of brightly feathered birds. On late summer afternoons flocks of sunny goldfinches weaved through the balmy air, narrowly avoiding collisions with scarlet tanagers and blindingly orange northern orioles up for their seasonal visit from the lower Americas. The azure bluebird was right at home in this psychedelic avian mix. True, here and there some duller sorts crept in. The grackle was never far off. The loathsome brown-headed cowbird ever threatened the sanctity of nests. Yet by and large this was a perfect time to be a charmingly colorful songbird.
Alas, this idyllic landscape was soon marred by the encroachment of some particularly reprehensible European birds. Notable among these are the house sparrow and common starling. Both were intentionally introduced in order to bring a bit of old world culture to the "new" continent. In the starling's case, their introduction was part of a deranged scheme to bring all birds mentioned in William Shakespeare's work's to America. If only one of Shakespeare's eloquence were alive to lament the darkening of our skies with dismal flocks of these unsavory creatures.
These winged stormtroopers of drab were relentless in their advance. They bullied, harassed, and overran our native species with gleeful abandon. They were particularly cruel to our innocent bluebird, usurping his nests and driving him from his ancestral home. Had they mastered the use of tools they would no doubt have put his young to the sword and salted his fields.
The bluebird population declined. He became less and less visible. Soon children were born for whom he was but a story, a portrait in a field guide. Fortunately, conservationists and bird enthusiasts found new hope for our embattled friends. Specially designed birdhouses were erected that keep out the hated starlings and house sparrows, and provide sanctuary to bluebirds.
Gradually the bluebird's numbers increased. Nowadays they can be seen flitting about by any observer with a bit of patience and knowledge of where to look. Still, all is not well. Our backyards still teem with invasive sparrows. While the bluebird maintains a healthy population, his sightings fall within the more common backdrop of plague-like starling flocks, sometimes stretching from horizon to horizon.
Thus, the bluebird bruits happiness, but also sorrow. We feel rightfully blessed when seeing him alight, but our joy contains the seeds of grief. We know his life is precarious, and he perches upon a razor's edge. On one side life; carefree, full of song and delicious insect meals. On the other; oblivion. We see this and it tasks us. Will we look within ourselves and see our own mortality? Will we see the fleeting nature of worldly pleasures? Will we learn to live fully, allowing both the joy of creation and the grief of loss to flow through us like ocean waves? Or will we fall? Perhaps raging against the starling horde, and the house sparrows' song of death. Or perhaps blinding ourselves to the pain; contorting our faces into pantomimes of grotesque but inauthentic happiness; ignoring the gorgeous frailty of nature in favor of chipper platitudes or modern convenience. Though the perils of obsessive gloom seem well marked, we must recall the Dane's sage warning that "for despair the most cherished and desirable place to live is in the heart of happiness." And so, the bluebird sighting does more than just momentarily lift our spirits. It brings face to face with ourselves, and calls us to probe the deeper mysteries of humanity.
Further Reading
The Sickness Unto Death: A Christian Psychological Exposition For Upbuilding And Awakening (Kierkegaard's Writings, Vol 19) (v. 19)
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