REDWING SYMPHONY

I stepped out onto the porch the other day into an unlikely pool of warm sunshine. The setting sun cast diagonal stripes across our latest snow, and the Red-winged Blackbirds were clicking in the trees all around.      This companionable clicking noise they make is prelude to the longer symphonies they often sing. Sometimes I hear popcorn popping in those clicks, other times the sound of percolating coffee.      Red-winged Blackbirds were the first birds I noticed after moving to the Texas Panhandle. It was February, and in the big cottonwoods along the creek the blackbirds congregate and have interminable, contentious conversations.      Eventually they decide on a plan and take off, their coordinated wing-beats like a giant sigh. In flight, they form a long black scarf of lace with red jewels winking in it. It spreads above the prairie as the sun sets, a long ribbon waving in the winter sky.      At first I would see them from a distance, distributed across the topmost branches of the tallest trees, or flying together like a giant cloud. It was awhile before the Redwings (as they once were called) began hanging around closer to the house. Now that they’ve discovered the chopped corn I’ve been putting out, we’ve grown quite familiar with each other.      We forgive them their less-comely blackbird traits because of beauty, of course. Their red shoulders are a gorgeous crimson, jumping out from that glossy black like a rich surprise. That spot of red edged with gold against black gets multiplied again and again, and makes the sight of blackbird rabble at my feeding ground a pure delight.      The red epaulets are most visible when they’re just landing or taking off. When they feed, there is a constant jostling and rising and lifting of wings, a multitude of quick, rewarding glimpses of red and gold. Against the purity of snow, it is a kaleidoscope of Redwings.      I’m talking about the males, of course. Their worthy mates are a dowdier sort — brown, mottled, and faintly striped. You might mistake the females for a different bird entirely, if you didn’t always find them where the boys are.      Redwings have a high startle point. In winter they react so much as one, they seem less like individual birds than interconnected parts of a larger whole. The Flock, in capital letters, is what I call it. The Flock has a pulse and a rhythm of its own. It rises in synchronized motion, and holds long conversations with itself.      Sometimes, when The Flock is well-fed and well-satisfied, it graces all the trees around and sings. This great number of singers spread so thickly overhead makes for a kind of avian surround sound.      The clicks give way to a tinkling music, with calls of “Aura-leee, Oh-kah-leee” scattered within. Sopranos add a clear whistle here and there, intermittent notes surrounded by a complicated chorus. It all grows louder and more compelling as the sun descends, a Redwing symphony — what more fitting tribute to the close of day!