OPINION: Welcome spring with a serenade of redpolls

One of my great and simple pleasures during the last weeks of winter and first weeks of spring is the morning walk to collect the daily newspaper and then taking my collie mix, Denali, for a short walk.

Not that there's anything unusually inviting about the paper these days. What makes these forays from the front yard to the street particularly enjoyable are the redpolls that have taken up temporary residence in my Turnagain neighborhood. Quiet for much of the winter (except when alarmed or engaged in feeding conflicts), these small red-headed finches suddenly become talkative creatures.

With morning temperatures warming gradually, of course in spurts, and daylight hours increasing rapidly here in south-central Alaska (40 minutes each week), redpolls are not as forced to immediately fill their bellies with the breakfast offerings of sunflower seeds placed by birders in neighborhood yards. .

Instead of gorging themselves in the morning (whether at bird feeders or high up in birches and other trees), many seem content to slowly awaken to the day, while filling the air with trills and squawks.

I first noticed this gentle chorus of seasonal redpolls when I lived in Hillside, and was happy to learn that their encouraging voices also brighten the days that begin here in West Anchorage. There is no doubt that many other parts of our city are similarly fortunate, wherever red-tails congregate for morning meals.

This year is especially good for enjoying the serenade of redpolls, as an unusually high number of them have moved to Anchorage this winter (as noted in a March 29 DNA cover story). And they mostly stayed there as March gave way to April.

Considered an intrusive songbird, the common redpoll is one of the species that moves widely in winter when searching for food. Sometimes their travels take them to Alaska's urban center, other years they largely avoid the city.

Among the smallest and sturdiest songbirds of the north, redpolls vaguely resemble sparrows, but are distinguished by their red-feathered head spots and small black bibs. At this time of year, male redpolls also have a beautiful bright pinkish-red breast, a sign that the breeding season is approaching.

On the best of these mornings, my neighborhood vibrates with the avian chatter of hundreds of redpolls. It’s not that I just hear them; it's like my body is enveloped in their voices as I walk slowly to the edge of my garden and then along the street, stopping every now and then to savor the music.

The first time I experienced it, over twenty years ago, I felt like I had been transported to a rainforest filled with bird voices. How wonderfully strange that my own northern yard can be so alive and full of song, in winter even more so.

In fact, I'm not sure what the common redpolls are doing these mornings technically qualifies as singing. The main sound they produce is more of a guttural trill that reminds me of the purring of a cat or a bear cub. (Yes, little ones purr when they nurse, an incredibly delightful behavior that I discovered many years ago and is a story in itself.)

Between the soft trills are high-pitched chirps. For me, both are voices of contentment. This may just be my own projection, of course, but the birds' behavior suggests otherwise.

Perched on bushes and trees, the redpolls show no anxiety when I approach and greet them with my own whispered hellos or soft whistles. Some sit quietly, while others spread and flap their wings, much like a human might stretch and shake its limbs upon waking. Still others casually preen their feathered bodies, while a few engage in rapid chases across the courtyard. One after the other, pairs of redpolls slip between the branches and crisscross the snow-covered lawn. The start of seasonal romances, perhaps?

Sometimes, when the morning is mild and the air is calm and alive with birdsong, I simply stand for a moment in the yard or on the street, my eyes closed and my mouth open in a smile. And I let the sweet murmurs of the redpolls caress and animate my own still awake body. There is no doubt about the contentment that fills my being, the elevation of my spirit.

I wonder if the redpolls are welcoming the arrival of another day or if the north is speeding up its rush toward spring. Or maybe both. From late February through March, I really notice a change in the quality of sunlight that falls on Anchorage. I know that the change is actually gradual, that our days are getting longer by more than five and a half minutes, every day for weeks.

It seems like only a moment or two ago we had less than six hours of daylight; As I write this, in April, we have exceeded 14 hours, finally reaching over 19 hours. And this rapid elongation is accompanied by brightening, as the sun steadily rises higher in our subarctic skies.

The sun is high enough and, on a clear day, bright enough that I can clearly feel its warmth on my body, which didn't seem to be the case on the sunniest days of December and much of January. A certain threshold has been crossed and my skin and my mind notice it.

I have come to savor those days of late winter and early spring, when the deepest cold and darkness of the season have passed, but before the months of round-the-clock lightness arrive , bringing with them a sort of manic rush. Don’t get me wrong: I love Alaska’s all-too-short spring and summer seasons. But they bring an energy that doesn't lend itself easily to just being, just lounging through the day. Too often, summer is a time of do, do, do, as we Alaskans try to squeeze in as much adventure and play as possible before the long darkness returns.

I wonder if that’s also what I feel about flamed tailors. Soon they will disperse and pairs will build nests, then raise and feed their hungry families. And there will be little, if any, time to simply sit, trill and welcome the glorious light of day.

Anchorage nature writer and wildlife and wildland advocate Bill Sherwonit is a widely published essayist and the author of more than a dozen books, including Living with Wildness: An Alaskan Odyssey and Animal Stories: Encounters with Alaskas Wildlife.

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