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Nesting Sun

Pelican conductors: "Sing!"

Scout, Grog #6

1 of 3 Inkling fledglings

Grog & Sunshine*

5 of the 6 Grog Gang

The young Inklings are out. As they study from the cliff the bush and bees, skywaves of pelicans spot them and jot them down--three new notes to their make-shift, wing-bearing song. The raven fledglings watch the pelicans drift, dipping to the Pacific, adding wave-crash and gull-screech as chorus to the graceful order of their line which reminds these corvid half-notes that they, too, can fly and up they go, following their parents, Edgar Allan Inkling and Lenore.

The Grog Six have not only survived but are a force of nature. They own the cove by working together. They can de-snack a seagull, one or two distracting it, pulling a tail while another jumps in for the dropped morsel or use their numbers to intimidate the young Moro even though he is larger. They are quick, sharp and endearing.

The Grog Six are also competitive with each other, a good survival tactic. They remain in some proximity to their parents who appear to be in the last phase of kid control--still providing food, following the trail of inept caching and gobbling up the precious wasted bits, flying in quickly to break up fights, raising the alarm to danger and frequent scolding before simply looking on, shocked feathers raised but silent.

The three Moros, on the other hand, form a perfect triangle. Only the exuberance of their flight occasionally shifts their form, loyal and devoted. The Pips and Jets hunt the hills as much as the beach and join in the greater society of ravens living landward.

Now that nests are abandoned, there is nothing to contain these ravens. Lifting with the breeze or of their own volition, against cloud, surf or vast sea, these black stars fold the blue sky under their wings. Grog tucks his Sunshine*. Night is come. "Prepare to climb unto the stars."

Photos through generosity of Diana @ravendiairies.com. Thank you!

The Last Nestlings

"Out with the new and in with the old"-E.A. Inkling

*The Last Nest

"I know everything now."

"Not listening anymore, old Grog."

Now that I am away for a week, I expect the three little Inklings will fledge before I return. I imagine they will venture forth, first climbing out of their nest to explore the bushy cliff above them before any serious flights. The three are fairly well feathered out but with big white-lined beaks still.

Before I left, I watched the big greedy nestling in front testing his wings. Soon they will not be mere vans to beat the air. The third nestling seems always stuck behind or beneath the other two. They are growing so rapidly now that the parents have to feed them from the edge or outside the nest.*

The young Grogs act like they've been out and about for years, flying with supreme confidence, engulfing a parent's beak with their own before a gesture of food can be made, demanding yet endearing too. One little Grog kept creeping closer to me as I sat on a log, curious I think of what I might be made of, yet just resisting an urge to peck me to see. Like his parents, we too seem to respect the line between us.

There is a calm in the Grog family with some of the parent's irritation in abeyance. Perhaps it is a lull before the inevitable separation, a time of mutual enjoyment. The parents appear proud if not sometimes dumbfounded by the power and precociousness of their young while the young happily revert to their childhood privilege of parental preening. With Grog working on one wing and Sunshine the other, a young Grog's soft cooing and fluffed feathers exude pure bliss.

Everyday, I expect to see less than six Grog offspring yet so far, the six remain in home territory. No one seems to know what becomes of young ravens. Like most birds, their survival rate is speculated to be low.  As I think of the three new Inklings coming out in all their youthful trust and curiosity, I am remanded to the newly old, the raven parents, those songbirds--'singing-masters of my soul'.

Air Chief Marshal Grog

aka  Sunshine

*"Come fly with me..."

Sunshine, on a mission...

"Hmmm should we join #6?"

#6: "Here I come, Hawk!"

The Grog young are ranging far and wide now. I happened to meet all six of them when I was walking up the hill over the weekend. Their parents appear to be familiarizing them with the far corners of Grog territory (Is this in preparation for their 'final' launch?). 

As we nodded greetings, a neighboring raven (whom we'll call Ace) as yet unmentioned by me, took a post-stance above us all. The resourceful Sunshine, Mother of the Skies, flew straight up to challenge the great hulk from due north. She not only managed to send him flying after a hair-raising, knocking display but then joined him in seductive flight as they twisted and turned, wings in perfect time.*

This distraction allowed her six young to eat road-kill rabbit (provided by Grog) at their ease without any swiping attacks from the great Ace, something he is known for.  A.C. Grog looked both ways with admiration, to his indomitable mate on high and to his long line of progeny, the Grog guard.

With so many Grogs, I can only hope that their strength in numbers doesn't give them false security. Soon after this, one of the six took off in pursuit of a circling Cooper's hawk. He chased and chased and chased it, only occasionally joined by less enthusiastic siblings.

The next time I looked up, the hawk with wings tucked for speed was racing furiously after Sunshine (Was she taking the brunt of the hawk's annoyance with her child?). After this chase had gone some distance, Sunshine ducked left, coming back up behind the hawk. Now Air Chief Marshal Grog was chasing him.  

Photos courtesy and generosity of Diana@theravendiaries.com

Don Juan del Moro

Don Juan?

A feather-eared maiden--nevermore?

The young Moro, the eldest of the ravens born at the beach this year (I think he must be about two and a half to three months old), is turning into a handsome fellow. Instead of his mother, "looking [at him] a lecture," she rather seems dazed by his beauty.

Instead of scolding when he made a  foolish cache that was quickly scarfed by a seagull, she seemed glued to her rock-perch, admiring the unscarred sleekness of his outspread wings as he jumped and the rise of his finely developed beak in outrage. El Moro Padre meanwhile made it a rule to follow the trail of his son's dinner, refusing to allow any edible speck to go to waste, that seagull theft being the exception. I have watched him gather his son's caches and re-cache them himself in less discoverable spots. The Grogs also keep a good watch on their young's caching, playing the devil's advocate if not just enjoying a morsel themselves.

Also, I have noticed the ravens crunching tiny bits of seashells. I imagine there is something in them to compensate a lack in their diet. When I saw El Moro land on a brittle bush with flimsy looking branches, I was reminded of their lightweight and hollow bones (the average adult raven weighs about two and a half pounds) despite their largeness among birds. His son even joined him there to beg for food. Raven parents appear completely unselfish in their feeding.

The Inkling mother is looking haggard with the constant care of her nestlings. She has a near-bald band above her eyes which gives her an exaggerated air of care. Yet, when she makes "ears" to assert herself by depressing most of her headfeathers except tufts above and behind the eyes, Lenore's definitely stand out (not enough to get her to a head-dresser because to Edgar Allan Inkling she is a radiant maiden evermore).

RAF

Raven Air Force

"agile, adaptable & capable"

"Trust me, Moro, I'm a nice guy."

--Scout

Yesterday, as I was catching up with the El Moros, I looked up and there flew the RAF, the Raven Air Force. Was this a reconnaissance of El Moro territory or perhaps an attempt to recruit new wings? Whatever the intention, the result was some daredevil flying before any thoughts of returning to base.

What I love about the young Grogs, young ravens altogether, is that curiosity which I have written about before. They can't pass a rock without looking beneath it or pass a stick without trying it out for size. The just can't keep to themselves but must test that crab, chase that squirrel or taste that bee. As I have noted, no boundaries seem to stop them, their world is still growing--unconfined.

Today, after the squadron dispersed, one young Grog stayed behind much to the annoyance of the El Moros. This Grog--Scout, I think--is smaller than young Moro but seemed determined to get to know him despite the Moro parent's discouragement. The two young made several short test flights together before landing. Scout hopped among the rocks and sand, pulling kelp and studying rock shadows, trying to engage the Moro in a bit of fun.  The Moro parents stayed close, occasionally flying at Scout which fazed him not. Young Moro himself, made some tentative playful gestures but often returned to Madre Moro for approval. 

Both the Grog and El Moro young are still being fed by their parents. The control is still at the top. Yet, the Grog squadron is definitely asserting some independence. I have heard the parent's call only to be ignored by some. This Scout was a point in fact. I could see (through my binos) his parents about a mile north, sitting on a post, no doubt wondering if he was coming back or had joined the enemy or was Scout on a secret Grog mission?

Nest update: Only the Inklings have nestlings now. So far I have seen three.

Photos through the kindness of Diana @theravendiaries.com

Runt or SuperRaven

"Where's the nearest phonebooth?"

"My hero, my dad--Grog"

The runt of the Grogs has a special place in his father's affections. While the other five are precocious and inquisitive, pushing each other off cliffs and tantalizing each other with the preciousness and desirability of some newly discovered stick or string of kelp, the runt sits alone.

He favors his parent's company to his rowdy siblings, seeming to relish calm moments of repose next to them. Yesterday, he and his parents were each on a post leading down to the beach. Some people walked by frightening the runt who flew to the cliff edge. After a few moments, Grog left Sunshine's side to join him, placing himself between his favorite and the ledge. The two sat side by side in obvious contentment.

I noticed their closeness again today. Unlike his siblings, I haven't noticed the runt begging loudly for food. Rather he appears to be in his own world perhaps dreaming of being SuperRaven. He and Grog both take evident pleasure in their mutual proximity. When Grog returned to their perch after feeding a noisy kid, the runt turned himself around to position himself just like his dad. Grog looked at him as if in approval, barely resisting the urge to preen him. Instead, they held their heads identically, nobly looking forward while Sunshine scrambled around the other five.

Tonight when the parents decided it was roosting-time, they let out strong calls and flew down the beach toward the old nesting area. Four Grogs followed immediately; the fifth flew over to the runt's perch and gave him a peck before taking off in pursuit of the rest of the family. The runt only looked on, thinking his own thoughts. A good ten minutes later, he seemed to wake up and notice no one was about. He gave a croaky call and flew unhurriedly in much the same direction as the rest, doing several zigzags cleverly escaping the likes of Lex Luther. "It's a bird, it's a plane, no, it's SuperRaven!"

Air Lines?

The Lines of Oblivion

"Stay safe with me, nino."

"Let's hit the air."

I had been awaiting with great expectation the meeting of the Grog Six with Moro Uno. Yesterday, as I was running along the beach from the south, reversing my usual direction, I stopped dead in the sand of El Moro territory. There was the Grog clan making themselves at home, having crossed the El Moro Line. 

Oblivious to any boundaries, the Grog Six explored different rocks and pulled the poisonous white trumpets of jimson weed  before flying close to the El Moros to inspect them. The El Moro parents like the Grog pair were alarmed and alert with feathers stretched to the skies, hopping war dances around each other. The young Moro appeared curious, then confused, then adopted the aggressive stance of his parents. The Grog Six remained unfazed.

Madre Moro flew south and her son obediently followed. El Moro took a parting jab in flight at a young Grog and his parents before rejoining his family. All the Grogs then relaxed but the El Moros were only regrouping. The three flew back into the fray. Sunshine Grog, fiercely protective of her six, challenged Ella Moro. They locked claws in circles in the air. If this combative display was meant to be instructional to their young, they didn't seem to notice.

Today, I hoped for peaceful play. I ran my usual route from north to south and the Grogs followed. The young raced ahead and joined Moro Uno in fabulous flights. There seem to be no borders acknowledged or lines drawn by the young. The cranky adults made a showy pretense of dominance while their young, nearly as big and strong as the parents, conquered the air with congeniality, brushing the blue sky with their wingbeats. 

  

Other raven update: Two Pipsqueaks, noticeably smaller than the three Jet young, out of the nest; two pink Inklings evident in nest with likelihood of more; the three Jumbo Jets, full and richly feathered appear to prefer their palm tree to airy pastures new.

Just an Inkling

*

 

E.A. Inkling

More than an inkling--one is inside

Summer seems scarcely coming as a stolid gray bank of clouds has claimed the horizon for weeks--June gloom as it's known around here. The waves fail to crash but draw themselves in and out listlessly. The bright bush sunflowers and mustard have dissolved into brittle postmodern sculptures. Yet, the migrating orioles call their sunny staccatos from branch to branch, the common yellowthroat reveals his black mask from behind the leaves and young ravens stir the wind with the flick of their fresh tails at the dull air. The Grog Six appear to revel in wonder at their new world, even forcing the seagulls to take note by pulling their tails.

Further along the beach from a promontory, I watched the solitary young Moro hold his alert gaze out to sea as a string of brown pelicans surged north.* He then looked down to the orange-red bills of the black oystercatchers scouring the rocks for barnacles. As his parents landed below him, he scratched his head and got back to work hammering his cliff art, sending rocks right and left and one right onto his mother's head. She shook it off gamely while the silent Moor only looked on. 

In the next stretch of beach, high in the cliff,  I finally got an Inkling. At last I saw an Inkling nestling, only one. It is not feathered out yet, tiny. I would guess that it is about a week old as all I could see was a naked pink head and beak, edged white. Edgar Allan Inkling seemed busy collecting mutes for disposal so perhaps there is more than one nestling. Mother Lenore, after feeding her little one, settled gently into the nest for further incubation. 

Across the road, I believe the Jumbo Jets did take off yesterday in flight training. I couldn't see them in or around their nest. This morning the three were striking even against the palm shadows with their lush coats of sable giving them an air of rich contentedness as they awaited breakfast-in-nest. And the shy Pips still keep good guard with each parent on either side of the cliff jutting out from their precious pipe family of two babes, as far as I can see. An inkling of a raven could "beguile any sad soul to smile."

Son of Grog (and others)

 

Jet

Edgar Allan Inkling

(son of Grog)

Pip

I mentioned in one of my posts, a raven pair to the south of the El Moros--the Inklings. The Inklings have carved out a bit of beach territory between two reef points, fighting off the El Moros to the north and another pair to the south, the Pips, who have nested in a pipe coming out of the cliff (fortunately, it hardly rains here). Just a long stone's throw behind them is a another pair, the Jets, who have nested in a palm tree just across the road from the beach.

Edgar Allan Inkling is a familiar character. I feel certain that he is a son of Grog. He has never been afraid of me and so I can only assume that he remembers me from his youth in Grogland. For a mature raven, he is garrulous and utterly confident. He'll land right beside me without raising a feather. His father, whom I have known longer, is much more cautious. He has a right fork in his tail at present. The Inklings' nestlings appear to be the least developed of these three southern pairs. The mother seems to be still incubating baby Inklings.

Down the beach from Edgar Allan Inkling is Mr. Pip who has a left fork in his tail, a bigger air gap than Edgar's. The Pips nesting in the large pipe are shy and wary of people. I have seen at least two nestlings whom I would guess might be about three weeks old.

In the palm tree across the road are the Jets. Both parents are a deep black without a feather missing, gorgeous. I have been watching the nest and yesterday saw heaps of sable feathers. Both parents were out so I concluded that featherbed had to be babies.

It has been difficult to see into their nest and so only yesterday was I able to confirm that there were young ravens. Imagine my surprise when today, I saw Jumbo Jets. I think the three Jet young I saw this morning were looking for a runway, ready for take-off.

Jabberwocky

The Jubjub crooning

The Grog Six

*

"Not that nonsense again!"

This morning the Grog Six (yes, happily there are still six) flew spectacularly, I thought. As the swallows dove in and out of the air, the Grogs seemed to take note and do it one better. Could there be a special providence in the flight of a swallow? Not for insects, but perhaps for ravens. Of course, the ravens weren't catching breakfast in flight, they were too busy chattering, chopping and changing direction.

Many times I have listened in wonder to the conversation between ravens high in flight as they replicate moves and compose patterns together. How could they fly so elegantly while carrying on a discourse? What are they saying? "I want to take you higher"? This morning I witnessed the rougher version--the young Grog's clappers going a mile a minute at each other as they jerked right and left, wiggling their tails, chased by a black phoebe. 

Several of the young landed in the sand, one on a nearby rock to practice her monologue with such an appreciative audience as me. She clacked, jabbered, prated and sang, her rosy red mouth wide-open and inexhaustibly answering herself. This gifted gabbler has the identical profile to her mother, Sunshine, with a flatter head and beak than the others (or maybe she will get a bigger head as she grows).

The El Moros are very quiet by comparison as if the solitary young Moor is keeping his thoughts to himself. Without the jabbing, daring and volubility of siblings around him, his sounds may lack their range and variety. Yet, that may change when he begins the social rounds.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

  Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun  The frumious Bandersnatch!"

*Click on to enlarge

Birds do it

    

The Call          

"He's got that look in his eye."

"What's up?"

Exploration

I was relaxing on a piece of driftwood, with five of the Grog Six picking around in the cliff above me and their parents taking a break next to me. After some mutual admiration, A.C. Grog let off a loud, deep call, a warning or admonition, I thought, to a recalcitrant young one, perhaps the one on the sands with us. I had noticed no raven infraction. We all came to attention, Sunshine particularly. She then proceeded to jump upon Grog's back, making love motions.

I was more than surprised, wondering if I had misidentified their sexes all along. After a minute, he slightly pushed her off and then hopped atop her, proceeding with what I can only assume was the real thing. The young Grog on the sand looked agog, much like myself. Was this a lesson for him or just a pleasurable extension of the parent's break?

The raven young do learn by example, not only in their flying but in their examination of the world around them. The parents show them the value in picking up rocks, sticks, shells, leaves as sometimes there are uncovered creatures to eat. A young raven's curiosity is boundless and only with age and experience, more fearful.

Although the young's flying has improved, their landings could still use some finesse. Both the Grog and El Moro parents have shown understandable irritation at being landed upon or crashed into. Kek-kek calls of agitation, head feathers raised in annoyance, followed by putting distance between themselves and their young seems to be on the rise. As the young's mobility increases, they press their presence upon their parents by following them and calling to them, begging them for food. Consequently, the parents seem to be slightly oppressed.

On the other hand, the young Moro is still being spoiled like an only child with his mother grooming and preening him, not to mention frequent beak kisses. The Moor looks proudly on, ready "to die upon a kiss."

Photos through the kindness of Diana @theravendiaries.com

Sea-Wings

The Sunshine Queen

                    in the lead

The air she flew in was like a burnished throne. Sunshine, gliding with regal wings wide and still, led her six devoted young, their wings beating with love to follow faster. Her royal beak burned the air blue.

And then she turned. The formation broke into individual acrobats afire. I have never seen such twists and turns, biting the air and goading each other. One young Grog flew as if he had ants in his pinions, head flicking round right and left, wings and tail in aerial convolutions--truly extraordinary. It was if he was discovering every possible bodily contortion he might form in flight or how he might use the air thus.

If it took the Grogs awhile to get airborne, it is the air itself now gone vacant to gaze upon the wings of the Grogs, "making a gap in nature".

The Grisly Grogs

In Sync

   

*Grog youth: "Don't look to me for answers."

Grisly Grogs

While the Grog Six were resting (three in a magnolia tree and of the other three, two were asleep, top to tail on a telephone post with the last one just next to them on the wire), the parents took a flight down the beach. There they met El Moro in no bird's land and so feathers came up along with a lot of strutting around. Ella Moro remained a short distance away on a rock, keeping a close eye on her young one.

To my horror, the three got into a fight with one raven on his back in the sand (I assume it was El Moro) while the other two attacked, wings all over the place. I ran over to break it up just as Ella Moro and even the young Moro flew to help, calling all the while. The Grisly Grogs flew back north and the El Moros returned south. It had not been a happy sight, yet I was impressed by the young Moro's unhesitating advance into the fray to defend his father. He obviously is not a featherweight.

Recently, I had been lucky to witness a flying lesson by El Moro. The father led, executing swift turns while the young Moro missed not a beat, following his father's moves perfectly. They flew together--right, left, up, down--inches apart in exact synchronization.

Yesterday, I saw another synchronized flight of two ravens. While her mate, A.C. Grog, watched graciously from a post, Sunshine Grog air-waltzed with a neighboring raven. Why the good-breeding Grogs yesterday and the beastly ones today?*

Where do the Grogs go at night?

Rolling

& below, Five having Fun

while elsewhere...

was Six, the clever Cacher

Last night,  I went late to Grog territory to see if the sextuplets returned to the nest at night. At eight o'clock sharp, the parents who had been sitting by me, gave a sharp call and flew around their area. I had thought they might call them back to the nest. Instead, the six all settled down to sleep on a branch in the sycamore tree. Three rested close together, another on a branch below them and the other two on a separate branch on the other side of the tree.

As the sky darkened, I lost track of the parents. A hooded oriole made his grated clicking sounds and the sprightly phoebe with his young nowhere in sight, was still fishing the air. The woodpecker I had seen in the morning made no drumming sounds to give himself away. The hummingbirds continued to drink the sweet nasturtiums that paled in the moonlight while the melancholy cry of the owl fortunately was unheard. 

The Grogfather

                                       

Moro mother and child

Young Grog with an itch

The Grog young seem to be fascinated by sticks amongst everything else. They play tug-of-war, push them into the air (and no, sticks don't fly). There is speculation that ravens use sticks as tools. Mature ravens are definitely adept at finding a stick's center to balance it to fly off with it. This morning as I watched young El Moro using his beak to hammer a hole in the cliff,  I wondered if a raven has ever considered a stick also as a weapon, an extension of his beak.

Once on the beach not long ago, the Grogs were flying south as I was running. The El Moros came up to challenge the Grogs approach to their territory. I sat down to watch and the Grogs flew over to me and began pulling sticks off the beach and out of the cliff. They both were doing this in a seemingly furious manner. They had not done a feathered prestige display to the El Moros, but this stick gathering appeared ominous. Was this their power display? Once I got up to continue running, the tension seemed to dissipate and they flew back to their territory. Now that the Grog young have fledged, I can only assume that Grog's current interest in sticks is for nest repair or perhaps to teach the young their use.

Often he and Sunshine call out in youthful, high voices, sounding like young ravens. When I hear them, I wonder if they are coaxing their young from a morning lie-in? (Others are about, shouldn't we get flying?) Other times, the parents make sharp retorts. A fledgling's clumsy landing practically on top of her brought Sunshine's feathers up in annoyance. With an angry quork, she flew off. The El Moros are not as vocal around me as the Grogs.

 The El Moro youth is flying with increasing competence. Whereas most of the Grogs are still just trying to get from tree to tree without crashing, young El Moro is already practicing turns in the air, using his tail to change direction.

This morning the Grogs had a lesson in extracting squirrel flesh. With his young surrounding him in fascination and hunger, the Grogfather used his claws to hold down and his beak to expertly skin his catch. As he pulled out meat, he fed his dependents. One adventurer managed to procure a great piece of squirrel and jumped to the ground to cache it, caching being another of their lessons. This proud young Grog couldn't believe his luck as he returned to his cache continually, inspecting new possible locations, then eating bits and reburying others, unbeknownst to his five siblings. 

All photos courtesy of theravendiaries.com with gratitude. (click on to enlarge)

Now there are SIX

Help                                                                                          

Grog to the rescue

This afternoon I went to see how the Grogs were faring. Well, to my great surprise there were six! I suppose one must have been hidden in the nest from my counting eyes. Now they are all out. The last three to leave the nest (but not far from it) were sitting together on a eucalyptus branch, basking in the sun. In my three hours of observing them, they did not even exercise their wings but stuck together resting. Then the lowest slid down the branch and so the other two followed. Eventually two of them were situated in the crook of the tree. After a while, the highest one climbed back up and so the other two followed. Safety in company.

Of the remaining three, two were more pleasantly situated in the shade of the sycamore tree, playing with the large leaves, pulling bark, even preening each other. They appeared to be great friends. The last Grog might have been the first one out and flying. Unlike the others, he was flying around, looking at everything, keeping his parents on their toes. He seemed already confident, almost fearless.

As I was about to leave, the three newest fledglings were still huddled next to each other on the eucalyptus branch, each with their right wing hanging down in apparent exhaustion from all that climbing. Their nictitating membrane gave them a faraway look and their beaks dropped open, revealing bright rosy mouths.

May there be six forever and ever. Last year there were six and only three survived.