He pointed me to the website of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology, where someone had inquired about luring birds to a 17th-floor balcony. Nevertheless, I ordered the feeder, filled it with birdseed, and installed it in my window, where it interrupted the soundproofing, so I found myself working amid a cacophony of sirens and jackhammering.
Two hundred and fifty feet above ground—the height of the tallest giant sequoias in the Sierra Nevada—the wind howls more often than not. Despite my best efforts to insulate the edges of the wobbly wooden feeder, freezing January air whistled through the apartment, slamming shut any door left ajar. My husband, Jeff, was not thrilled.
But then, as a native New Yorker, he is not exactly Mr. Once, when we were dating, we went on a short hike in New Jersey, where he strode purposefully to the edge of the woods, leaned into the trees, and began uttering a convincing trilling call followed by a kind of whirring and honking. I was impressed until I realized he was mimicking a car alarm.
Yet no pigeon appeared. Weeks passed. Chilly, noisy weeks. I joined him, and we peered around the door until the startled visitor worked up the courage to return. A cherry gum ball of a head poked up from the ledge and cocked to one side, uttering an inquisitive chirp and inspecting the room from behind plexiglass. Once satisfied that all was clear, a sparrow-size creature with a blushing breast and triangular beak hopped into the feeder.
I recognized it immediately as a house finch. The epidemic moved like pink eye through a preschool, rendering many infected finches virtually blind. Millions perished—a heavy blow to a species ranked among the most successful alive. Over the next 50 years, these plucky pioneers established a firm footing, spreading across the continent until they reunited with their western cousins on the Great Plains. Today the finches inhabit perhaps the widest ecological range of any living bird, having emigrated from their ancestral deserts all the way to the edges of the subarctic taiga, adapting to suburbs and cities alike.
Though such a common species might not excite a seasoned backyard birder, I hardly qualified as such. Only in writing about the aquarium hobby—an invention of the Victorian era, whose amateur naturalists spawned modern biology—had I come to recognize my own faunal illiteracy.
According to experts, feeding birds is probably the most common way in which people interact with wild animals today. More than 50 million Americans engage in the practice, collectively undertaking an unwitting experiment on a vast scale. Still, what are the consequences of skewing the odds in favor of the small subset of species inclined to eat at feeders?
Three or four times a day, my heart thrilled at his arrival, announced with a polite, question-like cheep. The idea traces to the mids when the wildlife ecologist Stanley Temple and his then-student Margaret Brittingham color-banded several hundred black-capped chickadees in the Wisconsin woods, mounted two specially designed feeders, then laboriously counted the sunflower seeds each bird ate.
Only in especially severe weather did feeders appear to undoubtedly help: chickadees with access to one had nearly double the chance of surviving the harsh Wisconsin winter—the difference coming down to a few frigid days. B efore long , our resident male brought home a dull brown female to whom, at dawn, he sang an ebullient warbling tune that pierced the pillows over our heads. One morning, after a particularly passionate serenade, Jeff noticed the female tweeting up a storm in the feeder as she tilted her head and shimmied her wings.
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He called me over in time to see the male respond by leaning down to touch her beak and regurgitate down her throat. I had never seen something more beautiful.
Jeff seemed to think this was a little much. But he was growing attached to the finches too, and now the prospect of babies loomed. Studies suggest that birds receiving supplemental food may have a better shot at reproductive success, laying more eggs, for example, earlier in the year. Sure enough, one sunny April afternoon, incessant squawking interrupted my work. When the source of this ruckus clambered into the feeder, I found myself staring back at a bewildered fledgling with downy white pinfeathers sticking up from its head.
It was an appalling vision of parenthood—and one that bore repeating in a matter of weeks.
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Since house finches lay up to seven eggs in a clutch, and raise several broods a season, flocks may congregate by the hundreds. Soon, birds lined up on our ledge like patrons outside a hot new restaurant. Word spread through the finch population of Manhattan. By midsummer, the line zigzagged across the eastern face of our building. The raucous crowd attracted a few curious hangers-on: a dark-eyed junco, the Darth Vader of sparrows, his eyes obscured in an all-black helmet of a head; a mourning dove I called Lola, who monopolized the feeder for hours on end, vacuuming seed into an esophageal pouch called a crop for later digestion; and one warm summer evening, as twilight fell over the city, something large and fluffy that perched in silhouette against the darkening sky.
Jeff swore it was a chicken. I feared it was a hawk. Such clustering around feeders can accelerate the spread of disease. On closer inspection, I saw that his eyes were pink and swollen, encrusted with dried ooze. More than two decades since conjunctivitis first began showing up in house finches, the disease continues to afflict the species, rendering the eastern population less than half its former size.
To protect the flock, I knew I was supposed to shoo away the sick bird, though he could starve on his own.
I stood watching the finch peck lethargically at the seed. Then, tears in my eyes, I began to bang on the plexiglass until he stumbled dizzily out onto the ledge. Following recommended protocol, I removed the feeder, cleaned it with bleach, and closed up shop for two weeks to disperse the colony, lowering the shades against the throng at the window whose plaintive chirping I did my best to ignore. To my surprise, however, when the quarantine expired, the birds were there, awaiting the grand reopening.
I ordered a tiny space heater designed for pet parrots and got Jeff to wire it into the feeder. A few weeks later, on a snowy Saturday, I sat watching with satisfaction as a berry-red finch, puffed up against the cold, stood basking in the electric warmth, inhaling his breakfast. No sooner had I turned my head to bite into my own bagel then a sudden thud and flurry of flapping propelled me from my chair.
I raced over to the feeder, where all that remained was a sad swirl of downy brown feathers, red only at the tips—and a single hawk quill. Predators in the apartment seemed like a turning point. I had to acknowledge that the feeder had become a major distraction. In lieu of actual food, our cupboards were stuffed with pound bags of birdseed that we lugged up from the mail room all too frequently.
At least every other week, I had to remove the feeder to scrub it with bleach and scrape off our ledges caked solid with bird poop. From the street below, it was nearly impossible to figure out what was attracting the finches to the building. I wanted to take down the feeder myself but felt responsible for the finches. The problem with these names is that they only refer to the non-native part of the definition above. Many exotic or alien species do not cause harm to our economy, our environment, or our health. Species that become invasive succeed due to favorable environmental conditions and lack of natural predators, competitors and diseases that normally regulate their populations.
When a species ends up in a new ecosystem, it is considered "introduced. Most of the introductions that result in invasive species are human caused. In some cases, we deliberately introduce species. Examples of this include garden ornamentals, range forage plants for cattle, animals and insects used to control other organisms particularly in agriculture , and plants used for erosion control and habitat enhancement for wildlife.
Other species are introduced accidentally on imported nursery stock, fruits, and vegetables, in ship ballast waters, on vehicles, in packing materials and shipping containers, through human-built canals, and from human travel. Invasive species are a form of biological pollution. Invasive species decrease biodiversity by threatening the survival of native plants and animals.
They interfere with ecosystem function by changing important processes like fire, nutrient flow, and flooding. Invasive species hybridize with native species resulting in negative genetic impacts. They spread easily in today's modern global network of commerce and are difficult and costly to control. Invasives impede industries and threaten agriculture and can endanger human health. Invasive species are a significant threat to almost half of the native US species currently listed as federally endangered.
The costs to prevent, monitor and control invasive species are enormous not to mention the costs to crop damage, fisheries, forests, and other resources. Most invasive species are introduced by humans accidentally. Learn how to prevent carrying invasive species on your boats, cars, bicycles, motorcycles, and socks and hiking boots.
Adopt a Conservation Mentality - www. What you can do to prevent species dispersion. Avoid plants that self seed and show up outside of your garden.
Do not use weedy volunteers from parks and abandoned lots. Most non-native species are okay; the invasive species are the ones to avoid.