The Gift of a Golden-crowned Kinglet

Last evening, when the sun went to sleep, were we sure it would awaken again? Even the "primitive" minds of millenniums ago knew it would, but they recognized the significance of the cycle of day and night. In northern latitudes the cycle of summer and winter was even more important than the daily cycle. The slow descent of the sun from overhead toward the horizon was a time of survival, when creatures migrated south or lay low on gathered stores. Last evening, the 21st day of the month, the sun finally halted its descent, and we know it rises today a little farther north, and spring will come again.

The reversal of movement, which is the winter solstice, was seen as an act of divine intervention, a gift of precarious life from greater powers. Celebrations were in order, and all welcomed the turning of the sun back toward the zenith with joy and thanksgiving. In the 19th century in America one form of celebration was the annual Christmas hunt, when men would venture out with their weapons to shoot as many birds as they could, with modest glory to the one with the highest tally. The tradition stemmed probably from that harvesting instinct to survive the winter. Like so many things human, it had gotten a little out of hand.

A hundred years ago, in reaction, a new celebration of just counting the birds was begun. Today, all over North America, avid birders are venturing into the field to an assigned area and counting the birds they find. Saturday was the first day of a three-week period in which local bird clubs could organize their count, and over forty people in 25 parties covered the Springfield area from before dawn until after dusk.

It was my 30th consecutive year in scouring a portion of Agawam that I had inherited from a retiring couple in 1969. This tradition is so strong that such areas are coveted and defended much as a bird defends its feeding grounds. In winter most birds remain in a small territory, much as they do when nesting. One of the first birds of the day was a Great Horned Owl calling out to the world his claim to a patch of woods and fields. From then on it was a feast of sparrows and chickadees and finches, the numbers jotted down at the end of each walk through a field or woodlot, until at dusk the same owl was heard calling again.

The Springfield area is densely settled with houses and roads and businesses almost everywhere, but you would be surprised at how many wild places there still are, where birds squeeze in among the people. Most parties noted about 35-40 species, and all together 75 species were reported at the compilation dinner that night.

The joy in this enterprise comes with the feeling of discovery each time we hear or see birds lurking in the brush or sweeping across a meadow, or flitting through the trees. Finding and identifying birds is a skill acquired with many hours and days in the field. The Christmas Count is a like an annual exam, in which you test yourself and do the best you possibly can. Success is measured not so much by the numbers at the end of the day, but rather by the sense of encounter and communion between yourself and other living creatures.

We had some especially exciting discoveries during the day, but my favorite was the smallest bird of all, the kinglet with the golden crown. This tiny bundle of energy is at home in our cold wintry climate, finding minuscule insect larva among the needles of evergreen trees. They come from the northern boreal forests in late fall and grace our woodlands with their incessant soprano song, too high for me to hear now.

They remind me of angels, wings beating madly even when alight, their pale bodies capped by a halo of gold that they seem to flash at your eyes, saying "I may be small in stature, but I am a royal gift." Perhaps they are a sliver of the sun, now low in the sky, but promising renewed life. My heart is gladdened by the golden-crowned kinglet, the bird of the season.