A Gift in Winter

I keep a bird feeder in our back yard, and it is a busy place during daylight hours. Over the winter I fill the feeder with sunflower seeds, hoping that it might attract red-brushed house finches, jaunty chickadees, or perhaps even a downy woodpecker. Instead a flock of house sparrows has claimed our yard as their territory. 

Dressed in drab gray and shades of brown, a species not native to North America, I haven’t much natural affection for house sparrows. Still, when the weather turns bitter, as it has this February, I’m reminded that the feed I provide keeps them warm and alive through nights that dip down to -35 C – and that seems like the right thing to do.

Earlier this month I was surprised to notice among the backyard bustle and business one bird that looked a little different. Through my binoculars it was clear that this bird, though similar in colour to the house sparrows, instead had jaunty stripes and a central spot on its breast and streaks on its head. With the aid of my All the Birds of North America, I decided with amazement that this was a song sparrow, a species which only rarely overwinters in Saskatchewan.  Posting a fuzzy photo to the online eBird site, the local curator of the platform confirmed that, yes, it was indeed a song sparrow. “Nice record.”

What was a song sparrow doing in my yard in Moose Jaw, all alone? Did it start the winter with a companion which hadn’t survived? Had it somehow been separated from its family during migration and so hooked up with the sparrows? I imagined a birdy version of Sid the Sloth in the animated classic Ice Age, waking in his tree one morning to find himself alone, craning his neck to look for family members such as “Uncle Fungus”.  

The house sparrows were less than welcoming. I often observed them indignantly flying at or pecking at the song sparrow, making it clear that they weren’t prepared to share what I had supplied for them in abundance. The song sparrow bravely stayed on, hanging around the edges of avian society, sneaking in for a few seeds before flying away to a safe corner. He perched often on our fence’s south facing low ledge, at the end of a long line of huddled house sparrows, all sheltering from the wind yet full in the sun. What a trooper! 

Late Friday afternoon I had my feet up in our sunny front room, hands cupping my teacup, grateful for warmth and safety indoors on a day when the high temperature was -26C/-15F.

That’s when I heard it. It was distinctively unlike the familiar, monotonous chirps of the house sparrows, sounds which we no longer noticed at all. I heard it faintly yet clearly through window panes etched with frost.

The song sparrow was singing. It sang with lilt and trill and a note of hope. My head lifted and turned in surprise, then delight, to listen to the sweet notes piercing the record breaking cold. Its song made my heart believe that spring might be possible. From some hidden perch, the resilient, lonely little creature offered a gift that I never expected to hear and didn’t realize how much I needed – birdsong in midwinter.