In February, cedar waxwing flocks are berry hungry
February brings an annual alien avian invasion. Weirdly enough, I look forward to it and sometimes worry I’ve been jilted if they don’t arrive on schedule. At the end of February, a large flock of cedar waxwings are drawn to our aged holly bush-turned-tree, which has stood guard in the same spot since my husband was a bored little boy who caught bees seeking honey from the small blooms that become brilliant red berries. Obviously there are other berried bushes in our area, including two very large holly bushes in our front yard; but this venerable holly is so big and sturdy that its branches can withstand the weight of multiple medium-size birds, making it an attractive banquet bush. The front yard holly branches are more supple and droop with the birds’ weight.
The movement of migratory cedar waxwings is labeled “erratic.” They often don’t return to locations previously visited, but I think the allure of our berry-laden bush may call to different flocks on different years since the berries are efficiently stripped each year by the beautiful birds who seem to view us as a fly-through eatery—like a McDonald’s that’s strictly for the birds.
Cedar waxwings are social all year long, nesting together in breeding grounds, grooming each other, and traveling together when it’s time to move from the chilled northern areas of their range to warmer climates, which to them equals more berries and sugary fruits growing on the bush and vine. Unlike us humans, they don’t go shopping for sunscreen, flip-flops, and cheap sunglasses, but simply take wing when the food gets scarce and the migratory switch is flipped.
Winter flocks of up to one hundred birds move south on cold fronts as the food supply wanes and nomadically wander together, seemingly without direction, in search of the ultimate movable feast. Their fondness for juniper berries takes the largest numbers to central Texas where junipers are plentiful and easily accessible; but our stands of sweet gum, oak, and cedar are attractive as well. Exceptionally large flocks of up to one thousand birds have been reported, but the flocks I’ve had the pleasure of knowing have been in the seventy-five to one hundred bird range.
The flock—that noisy, nomadic bunch—arrives with whistles and trills, a welcome change from the background “music” of the hordes of creaking and cackling grackles that pass through. The call of the cedar waxwing is described as “a high-pitched hissy whistle” that sounds like bzeee, bzeee, et cetera—or a sibilant skeee or sreee, depending on the ear of the listener—and “buzzy trills.” Frequency, pitch, and length of call depend on the situation and objective. For example, the adult’s extended, high-pitched whistle when taking flight differs from a begging juvenile’s call, which is relentlessly repeated in rapid sequence … like a whining child’s “call.” This trait crosses species, apparently.
Once you’ve heard waxwing communication, you’ll recognize it with relish—unless you’re berry protective. When the flock zeroes in on the berries, the bush seems alive, with every limb holding birds in a feeding frenzy. It’s a polite and unselfish frenzy, however, with the flock taking care of its own. When clumps of berries are tantalizingly far out on a thin twig, the birds form a line along the branch while one bird eases within reach of the twig, picks the berries and passes them one at a time to the closest bird, who passes them down to others, who pass them along until all the birds on the branch have had their share of the berries in a “pay it forward” way. The birds can also hover like elephantine hummingbirds while snagging a particularly succulent berry at the tip of a branch. They stay and feast as long as the berries hold out, then move on to another food source. I’ve got no problem with their taking the berries once I’ve already thrown out all the holly cuttings in the house that mixed nicely with the Christmas poinsettias. Besides, it would be hard for me to hold the waxwings’ appetite for berries against them when they’re so exquisitely beautiful.
The medium-size bird is a work of art with silky yellows, grays, and browns fading and shading into each other and accented with bright red, black, and white. Head, upper chest, and back are a soft buff tan, which may have a blush to it. The tan blends with the pale lemon-yellow of the belly and the soft dove-gray of the wings, which are wide and pointed like swallows’ wings and reach a twelve-inch span.
A rich red waxy substance at the tip of wing feathers is a flattened extension of the feather shaft colored by a pigment in fruits eaten by the bird. The color appears after the bird’s second autumn and becomes a deeper red with each following year. It may be a basis for choosing one potential mate over another in breeding season, perhaps because it indicates who’s a spring chicken versus who’s a well-seasoned old bird.
A spiffy black mask, the likes of which Zorro or any bandito would envy, covers the waxwing’s face and ends in a point behind the eye, giving it the look women try to emulate with black eyeliner. To accentuate the positive, the entire mask is outlined in pure white, while black chin and beak are outside the outlined mask. In contrast to the jaunty mask, the bird also has a “subdued” crest that often lays flat and flops limply down the back of the head. The squared off tail ends in a bright yellow band, which becomes a darker orange when a bird consumes the berries of an imported ornamental honeysuckle, an example of Adelle Davis’ “We are what we eat” nutritional comment.
I regret we get glimpses of the waxwing only in winter and can’t witness the courtship’s hopping dance performed first by the male and then, if accepting her suitor, by the female. The courtship is sweet and gentle as a couple passes small items like berries, a wee bug, or petals back and forth in their beaks and rub their beaks together in a blissful kiss. But I’m grateful for the brief visit we get and more than willing to offer our berries as payment for the pleasure of watching this affable and elegant bird. I don’t need the berries, and there’ll be more anyway after the blossoms and bees come in spring, as Nature performs her circular dance around the maypole and keeps the cycle of life spinning, spinning, and bringing cedar waxwings back to me next year.
Lucile waits for and watches cedar waxwings on the high bluffs of Vicksburg, Mississippi, where she teaches English at Hinds Community College, works at the eclectic Attic Gallery, and accepts with wide-eyed wonder the gifts Nature offers.
