I Love Lucy’s
Guest post by Carmen C. Christy
Lucy’s up. Lucy’s first up.
Until this spring, Mr. Abert’s Towhee has always maintained the title of First One Up, pinging out his contact call as he moves around, sharply suggesting to Mrs. Abert’s that she get up and get going. He’s followed shortly by Mr. Gambel’s quail who-Lives-on the-East-Side calling to his morning-grumpy family to come on and get breakfast. Mr. Gambel’s-Who-Lives-on-the-West-Side gets up much later and wanders in with his family whenever and wherever—this flock is far more casual (maybe the dad’s an old hippie). Then there’s the raucous Gila family woodpeckering away, beating tattoos all around the place this time of year, but mostly on the vents on my roof. The little sparrow flock is last up. They argue noisily among themselves, everybody talks at once, and they flutter in and out of bed. It’s hard to sleep past 5 a.m. in springtime.
It’s Mr. Lucy’s Warbler to us. Now that I’ve learned to recognize his three-part song, I can hear it echoing an acre or more away. Today I find him silhouetted black against the lightening eastern sky, high up in a mesquite tree. I can see no color, only movement. His little rounded head busily checks things out between bursts of song, which ring out every three or four seconds while he’s in the mood. He lifts his head, opens his pointy beak, and spreads the news. “I’m here!” Loudly. Repeatedly.
A couple of weeks ago they showed up at my hummingbird feeders, hopping confidently around the edges, clinging with their impossibly tiny little claws, helping themselves to sips of sugar water. These weren’t first-timers. These were birds who knew how to get a mouthful of something nourishing. The male Lucy’s came first, I think. I didn’t know who they were at the time, but I knew they were not my teensy golden-headed Verdins. Too big, more stream lined, with longer tails and wait, eye rings! I love field marks!
If it hadn’t been for Tucson Audubon Society’s new nest box program, I would never have known about Lucy’s Warblers. We bought a couple of their experimental triangular nest boxes and hung them in early March, according to the directions, in appropriate places. A few days later, both the male Lucy’s, with russet red decorating his cap and rump, and the plainer female with no red cap and only a bit of russet feathering, were flitting around in the mesquite where we’d hung a nest box. How lucky to see Mr. and Mrs. Lucy’s clearly house-hunting. I don’t think they’ve chosen the prefab, though. I think they are going au naturale.
Spring in my desert sanctuary along the Rillito River is always full of music and activity. It’s nice to have the old gang back together again. Some overwintered with me, and some have returned from winter vacations, but it’s all the more exciting when new feathered folks arrive. They add to the gaiety of nations around here. Mr. Abert’s can stay in bed. Now I have a new wake-up call to look forward to every morning: Lucy’s.
The other characters in this play:
Lucy’s up. Lucy’s first up.
Until this spring, Mr. Abert’s Towhee has always maintained the title of First One Up, pinging out his contact call as he moves around, sharply suggesting to Mrs. Abert’s that she get up and get going. He’s followed shortly by Mr. Gambel’s quail who-Lives-on the-East-Side calling to his morning-grumpy family to come on and get breakfast. Mr. Gambel’s-Who-Lives-on-the-West-Side gets up much later and wanders in with his family whenever and wherever—this flock is far more casual (maybe the dad’s an old hippie). Then there’s the raucous Gila family woodpeckering away, beating tattoos all around the place this time of year, but mostly on the vents on my roof. The little sparrow flock is last up. They argue noisily among themselves, everybody talks at once, and they flutter in and out of bed. It’s hard to sleep past 5 a.m. in springtime.
It’s Mr. Lucy’s Warbler to us. Now that I’ve learned to recognize his three-part song, I can hear it echoing an acre or more away. Today I find him silhouetted black against the lightening eastern sky, high up in a mesquite tree. I can see no color, only movement. His little rounded head busily checks things out between bursts of song, which ring out every three or four seconds while he’s in the mood. He lifts his head, opens his pointy beak, and spreads the news. “I’m here!” Loudly. Repeatedly.
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| Image by Lois Manowitz |
A couple of weeks ago they showed up at my hummingbird feeders, hopping confidently around the edges, clinging with their impossibly tiny little claws, helping themselves to sips of sugar water. These weren’t first-timers. These were birds who knew how to get a mouthful of something nourishing. The male Lucy’s came first, I think. I didn’t know who they were at the time, but I knew they were not my teensy golden-headed Verdins. Too big, more stream lined, with longer tails and wait, eye rings! I love field marks!
If it hadn’t been for Tucson Audubon Society’s new nest box program, I would never have known about Lucy’s Warblers. We bought a couple of their experimental triangular nest boxes and hung them in early March, according to the directions, in appropriate places. A few days later, both the male Lucy’s, with russet red decorating his cap and rump, and the plainer female with no red cap and only a bit of russet feathering, were flitting around in the mesquite where we’d hung a nest box. How lucky to see Mr. and Mrs. Lucy’s clearly house-hunting. I don’t think they’ve chosen the prefab, though. I think they are going au naturale.
Spring in my desert sanctuary along the Rillito River is always full of music and activity. It’s nice to have the old gang back together again. Some overwintered with me, and some have returned from winter vacations, but it’s all the more exciting when new feathered folks arrive. They add to the gaiety of nations around here. Mr. Abert’s can stay in bed. Now I have a new wake-up call to look forward to every morning: Lucy’s.
The other characters in this play:
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| Abert's Towhee by Jim Burns |
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| Gambel's Quail by Doris Evans |
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| Gila Woodpecker by Laura Stafford |
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