A Minyan of Cedar Waxwings

The delights of watching a flock of berry-eaters practice their cautious calculus.

Scout’s honor on full display. (All photos by Sara)

Yesterday my wife, Sara, spent three hours standing stock-still on a basketball court near where we live in Berkeley, waiting to take photos of Cedar Waxwings feasting on Pyracantha berries. At the moment when I joined her there — about, oh, two hours and 45 minutes into her vigil — no feeding was happening. There were a couple of bushes packed with luscious, as-yet-uneaten bright-red berries; above them, empty transmission wires.

“Just wait,” she whispered. I silently noted to myself that it was incredibly friggin’ cold and windy out there.

As Sara pointed out to me, about 50 birds were perched high up in a nearby tree. Over the course of her observations, they’d already gone a few times through a certain progression. In Sara’s words: “One brave member of the flock, a scout, would sit on the wire near the berry bushes. Then after 15 minutes two more would join the first bird. Then a few more would land. Finally the rest of the flock would fly over, and they’d go into a feeding frenzy. Inevitably a biker or pedestrian would pass by the bushes, and all the birds would fly back up into the tall tree! Very frustrating, but very fun for me!”

I was fascinated to learn that the flock had this heroic alpha bird, whom I nicknamed Scout (I know I should have worked harder on the nickname, but it was COLD!). Also, that it was only when he’d been joined on the wire by a small vanguard of hardy followers — a minyan, if you will — that things could really get going.

Sara got back into birding when she retired in June of 2020, after 35 years of public-school teaching. The first few times I joined her — riding our e-bikes along the San Francisco Bay Trail — it was as a bemused nature-phobe, a persona begun in my Manhattan childhood and then cultivated over decades of being intensely ill-at-ease whenever I was more than a few feet away from an excellent bathroom. (I still feel that way about bathrooms.) I love Sara with all my heart, and I was thrilled to see her get so much joy from checking out the local birds — or, as she calls them, “boiids” (yes, with two “i’s,” for that extra boinginess). But then, to my amazement, I started getting obsessed with birding myself. I developed favorites, though I learned from Sara that I should refrain from pointing and yelling out their name when I spotted them (“Oystercatcher!” “Surf Scoter!”), which might cause them to fly away. I also found out that some birds don’t like having humans staring at them (yes, I’m thinking about you, Osprey who flew all the way over from a radio tower near Point Isabel just to aim a stream of poo at me!).

A Black Oystercatcher. Actually, they don’t eat many oysters, mostly favoring snails and mussels — but oh no, I’m starting to birdsplain!

The Surf Scoter is one of Sara’s favorite ducks. She think it looks like it was designed by pop artist Peter Max.

But I came here today to tell you about those Cedar Waxwings! So here are some of Sara’s photos from yesterday:

Scout has arrived on the wire, indicating that a berry raid is imminent — “imminent” meaning in maybe 20 minutes, unless, God forbid, a pedestrian intrudes onto the scene.

Back in the tree, the others bide their time. Sara: “This jaunty trio is waiting for the pickleball players, strollers, and bikes to clear out, before attempting a berry run.”

Scout is joined by an intrepid juvenile.

The beginnings of a vanguard!

Sara: “Cedar Waxwings have red wax that secretes from the tips of their secondary feathers. The older birds have nine or more wax tips. The immature birds have 0-8 tips. The wax comes from the waxy coating on the berries, which protects the fruits from insects and mold — and from some birds that are unable to digest the wax. The tips signal to potential mates, ‘Hey, I’ve eaten lots of berries over the years! Look at my many wax tips!’ The more mature Waxwings pair off. They build their nests first and lay more eggs than their younger flock-mates.”

On the wires, critical mass has been achieved. Within minutes, the remaining members of the flock, who have been waiting in the nearby tall tree, will join these birds, dropping down into the bushes for a feeding frenzy — until a strolling human causes them to zip back to the tree, starting the cycle all over again.

Sara and I love how these birds seem to draw comfort and safety from their community. Maybe there’s a lesson in there somewhere?