The Hammer
Tiny as tiny a thing could fly Downy Woodpecker drops from the sky, and clings. The stem grasped by his thorny feet is the girth of a tree, the seedpods monumental fruit, such is the scale of things. He cocks his head. Is he listening? Turning, he shifts from eye to eye. Is it something that he sees? He drops the angle of his brow as if sampling some invisible scent upon the wind. In truth, the needle-piercings of his nostrils do not flare. With no particular sense of smell there is no need. Precarious, yet he remains secure, in the knowledge of how the job is done and where it lies. And how the chips fly!
There are two dangers equal to all the members of this tribe. A woodpecker’s bill slams into the wood so hard and so-many-times-a-second his brain must be tightly held within the skull against a cumulative lethality. Like a boxer pummeled too many times? The same. The other risk is completely obvious. Like a machinist at the lathe who must protect his eyes and here too Evolution provides. The nictitating membrane, that tough translucent shield drops over the delicate cornea every time he squints and at every risk of sharp and imminent harm. True, all his effort produces hardly anything to qualify as splinters, only dust and tiny grains. Yet there is grandeur in his game.
Downy Woodpecker whose tempest fits in a demitasse is a larger presence than he seems. He has no fear of me as I watch not ten feet away. He knows his work is to find his work and do it. And so he does: There! The grub, pumpkin yellow, fat as cracklings, tweezed in that agile beak and tasted by the tip of a featherpoint tongue: Yes! Tossed back, then swallowed and with hardly a pause begins again and quickly finds another; How does he know?
Nobody knows how he knows.
That “He” is more than a figure of speech. The red cockade gives his gender. Peculiar as this may seem, in most of the country so does a preference for narrow stocks and stems, a known male trait. If you hear a Downy high up in the small branches, or low on weed or sapling – chances are it’s a boy!
Downy Woodpecker dap-taps his way through the bounty of this perfect larder. The day may be hard but winter will be harder. Here is the craftsman sure in his trade. He does his job, better than the bossy English Sparrows chipping seed at the feeder in their lazy way, the Mourning Doves grown so fat, their fate will be sealed in the talons of hawks and owls. Downy Woodpecker? He’s chosen better: To be the hammer, not the anvil.
Author’s Note:
All the New England woodpeckers, whether migratory or resident, can be supported by not cutting down seedpod stems, hollow reeds of virtually all species and most especially dead trees. The only exception would be if there is a dangerous infestation that must be controlled, Asian Longhorn Beetle for example or one of the more pernicious Pine Bark varieties. However, mature trees and especially hardwoods that have died of old age (girth and a rotten core are your guides) are a safe bet, and leaving the deadwood standing helps to promote the diversity of birdlife throughout the year. Grubs and insects of all kinds harbor inside these hosts and support a myriad of essential life. And if you re lucky, a whole family of woodpeckers may take up residence. Neatness, like spelling, dose not coutn neraly as mcuh sa we’ve ben led to belieev.
© 2009 Mark Seth Lender
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