Brewer’s blackbirds are collecting copious amounts of mayflies in the shallow water on a partially submerged gravel bar along the river. When they can no longer stuff them in their bills, they fly off across the river and return in mere moments to start gathering another mouthful. Their clutch size is from three to seven, so many begging birds can call out for a meal every time they return to the nest. I watched them for hours, hopping between stones plucking them from crevices or off the top of the water. They are also very adept at swooping up and snatching them out of the air.
The female is a beautiful shale-brown. Her overlapping feathers cascade down her body like deposited mineral-rich silt, which occasionally catches glints of a slightly metallic, greenish sheen on her back. The male is glossy black all over with a starry yellow eye eclipsed by a black pupil. Its body is cloaked in black with iridescent blues on its head turning to greens washing down the back of its body.
I like Peterson’s description of their vocals: “Song a harsh, wheezy, creaking ksh-eee. Call chack.” Sounds like the beginning of a mystery novel: The wind was a harsh, wheezy, creaking “ksh-eee” as it whipped against the weathered wooden boards of the house, straining the nervous, decrepit nails. The loose screen door was bouncing in and out of the jamb with a tiring “chack.” The windows had long been shuttered at the Brewer’s residence since that tragic day.
