BY MIKE LUNSFORD
It’s in late April or early May when I first notice the orioles, although it must be said that once they are here, they are impossible to miss. Flashy and noisy and always startling, they never cease to catch me by surprise. I’ll be sitting at my cabin window, my mind a mile or two away as I contemplate an empty white page, and an oriole will suddenly light on a greening tulip tree branch not far away; they demand immediate attention.
Indiana is home to two kinds of orioles: the more common Baltimore oriole with its vibrant oranges and blacks and silver stiletto-like beaks, and the more subtle Orchard oriole, a slimmer black and chestnut-colored bird that I tend to see in only a few places on my property, and not for very long. Female Orchard orioles, by the way, are nearly green.
It’s July now, and the orioles that have made my yard and woods their summer homes (they winter in the tropics) while most of their kin have moved north, stay mostly in the crowns of our tallest maple trees, dining on caterpillars and spiders, as well as the berries that grow in brushy spots along our woods. They were first drawn to the trees by the ease of finding the lime green and tender samara, the winged fruit we often call “whirligigs.”
Now, by the time the heat of mid-summer has us in its sweaty grip, the few orioles that have stayed on in my corner of Parke County have raised broods that are out of the gray sock-like nests that their parents expertly constructed with plant down and moss and the finest grasses. My habit of leaving sliced oranges and cups of grape jelly out for them has become routine, and I will continue to be dutiful with them until August, as we see and hear the birds less and less, and then not at all. By the time we get to these “dog days,” they visit my buffet infrequently, preferring to raid my wife’s hummingbird feeders instead.
Orioles are celebrated most in the spring when their newness, their novelty, is as fresh as the season, but I find myself appreciating them most in this seventh month, for they have chosen to stay put, to stick it out, to make the best of it here. They share their crankiness and color as the heat of our summer rises, and the tints of our flowers, lawns, and trees begin to fade.
I have no way of knowing, but it’s possible that the mature couples I’ll see next spring are the birds that were raised here this summer. I hope they bring their appetites.
