-- By Tom Phillips
President Trump is not the only one tweeting in the wee hours. With the campus of Columbia University emptied of people by the Coronavirus, a congress of American Robins has flown in for their spring break and mating season. At midnight they perch in trees and bushes, on fence posts and statues, and sing their little heads off.
I first noticed this phenomenon a year ago, on a late-night walk through the campus. Hearing a loud solo birdsong when birds are supposed to be asleep, I traced it to a fellow in a bush, his red breast puffed up, tweeting at the top of his lungs. I looked at him, he looked at me. He flew away and resumed in a tree.
This year, with no humans to bother them, robins have flocked in droves to these academic groves. I looked up their habits: robins are among the first birds to sing in the morning and the last to stop at night, and they'll sing on through the night if someone leaves the lights on, which they always do at Columbia even if there's no one there. Last year's solos and duets are now a cacophony of mating calls and territorial warnings. For a little night music, click here
There's an English country dance tune called Mad Robin, and at last I understand the title. Robins are the crazies of the bird world. When do they sleep?
Robins are singers and lovers by night, predators and fighters by day. I saw two fight it out the other day under a hedge. Squawking loudly they flew at each other, bumped chests, fell down and repeated this clash several times until a winner was clear. Robin fights generally last less than a minute.
The rest of the day they spend stalking the lawn, twitching their tails and cocking their heads, listening for worms. Woe to the wayward worm.
Welcome robin redbreast! For once in a lifetime, the place is all yours.
-- Copyright 2020 by Tom Phillips
President Trump is not the only one tweeting in the wee hours. With the campus of Columbia University emptied of people by the Coronavirus, a congress of American Robins has flown in for their spring break and mating season. At midnight they perch in trees and bushes, on fence posts and statues, and sing their little heads off.
I first noticed this phenomenon a year ago, on a late-night walk through the campus. Hearing a loud solo birdsong when birds are supposed to be asleep, I traced it to a fellow in a bush, his red breast puffed up, tweeting at the top of his lungs. I looked at him, he looked at me. He flew away and resumed in a tree.
This year, with no humans to bother them, robins have flocked in droves to these academic groves. I looked up their habits: robins are among the first birds to sing in the morning and the last to stop at night, and they'll sing on through the night if someone leaves the lights on, which they always do at Columbia even if there's no one there. Last year's solos and duets are now a cacophony of mating calls and territorial warnings. For a little night music, click here
There's an English country dance tune called Mad Robin, and at last I understand the title. Robins are the crazies of the bird world. When do they sleep?
Robins are singers and lovers by night, predators and fighters by day. I saw two fight it out the other day under a hedge. Squawking loudly they flew at each other, bumped chests, fell down and repeated this clash several times until a winner was clear. Robin fights generally last less than a minute.
The rest of the day they spend stalking the lawn, twitching their tails and cocking their heads, listening for worms. Woe to the wayward worm.
Welcome robin redbreast! For once in a lifetime, the place is all yours.
-- Copyright 2020 by Tom Phillips
Uplifting, and I'm not even a birder. Thanks, Tom
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