Sparrows

Sparrows. My grandfather hated them. He even went so far as to change the words in his copy of the old blue United Church hymnbook. The hymn reads “God sees the little sparrow fall, it meets his tender view.” Pa crossed out ‘sparrow’ and changed it to bluebird.

No shortage of sparrows

I’m not crazy about sparrows either. I know they’re an introduced species and they are ubiquitous, spring, summer, fall, and winter. They don’t have gorgeous plumage although I do admit that there are many shades of grey and brown on their back feathers. Then there is the challenge of trying to tell sparrows apart. My Birds of Western Canada lists 20 different species of sparrow. So far, I’ve identified only 4, house sparrow, chipping sparrow, clay-coloured sparrow, and song sparrow. They are all little brown birds and unless I get a good look at the facial features through a pair of binoculars they are all pretty much the same.

When I see red-breasted nuthatches on the tree outside the living room window I get excited and grin like an idiot. The downy woodpeckers that visit occasionally get the same reaction, and the merlin that paid a visit once had me practically jumping up and down. Sparrows? Not so much.

I haven’t made bird watching a priority in that I don’t get up early in the morning to go to places where there is a greater variety of species. I do watch birds and watch for birds. When we’re out for our walks around the neighbourhood I keep a mental list of the ones we see, sparrows, magpies, pigeons, crows, northern flickers, and the occasional gull. Once in a while we’ll see a hawk, a downy, or a hairy woodpecker. I’m able to recognize the disappearing butt of a flicker by the white patch on its rump.

There is a thick hedge just across the street from us and I think it must be the equivalent of the sparrows’ pub. During the daylight hours there is usually a racket of cheeps and squeaks emanating from the bushes. We pick on the sparrows by sneaking up to the hedge and then saying, ‘woof!’ The sparrows quiet for a few seconds until we are past the hedge and then resume their conversations, complaining I imagine, about the two stupid humans who find the silly trick amusing. Lately, even though we don’t woof at them every time we pass, they seem to quiet as we approach the hedge. The brains of birds are mysterious places.

During the pandemic I’ve spent more time that I ever though I would watching the sparrows. They are constant. They show up around 8 in the morning, noon, and again around 2 in the afternoon. I have a pair of binoculars sitting by the living room window and today I watched 3 of them taking dust baths in the dirt at the base of a lilac bush. They also seem to appreciate the birdbath I made last year and 7 of them have tried to inhabit it at the same time. Some sparrows are better at sharing the space than others and there was one bossy little one who, with an open beak, fended off attempts of others to join him in his bath. The others retreated to a nearby bush until he flew off and then 3 of them got into the bath.

Dust bath depressions

Sparrows also provide lots of practice for me and my long lens. I need only raise the camera to practice capturing sparrows eating, sparrows preening, sparrows bathing, sparrows flying. They are little, quick, and challenging. Although I haven’t spent a lot of time sitting on the step with my camera, I know that they are always there to help me develop my photographic skills so that when a nuthatch, chickadee, or downy woodpecker decides to pay a visit to the yard I’ll have a better chance of a decent photo.

Now I just need to take those few steps out the door. The bird book, the binoculars, and the camera are waiting by the window. I love birds and love to watch them. If sparrows are the only birds whose availability I can depend on, maybe they aren’t so bad after all.