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.

Five vs. One

Grog child

*No one messes with the Moro

It is an interesting contrast with the Grog's almost quintuplets and the El Moro's only child--the scramble to keep track of five as opposed to the exaggerated attention given Baby Moro. Madre Moro hardly leaves her fledgling's side, preening, cuddling and cooing. Only when the Moros are giving chase to an encroaching raven pair or other danger does she separate. Padre Moro is almost as solicitous, chasing away with fury a small squirrel that stopped momentarily near the Moro fledgling as if it were a hawk with deadly intent. Yes, no one messes with the Moro. I thought osprey ate fish and so was surprised when El Moro gave chase to this osprey.*

Sunshine, the 'quint-mom' does manage but without the devotion Madre Moro shows her one. It seems that the fact that some of the Grogs are staying in the nest longer does give the Grog parents time to help the first ones out. It's almost as if the nest-leaving is staggered on purpose. Also, the larger the nestlings are upon leaving, the greater their ability for independence. The five also have each other to emulate and play with. The Moro parents are Baby Moro's sole companion. Still, once the young are all 'air-worthy', they will get together if the previous years are anything to go on. On with the fledglings, let flight be unconfined.

Patience, the hard thing?

the unruffled 

the unhurried

Raven parents are models of patience. Three baby Grogs are up and flying now but not without endless hours of parental feeding, coaxing with gentle calls, short suggestive flights, and just standing by protectively. This morning, after a bit of branch hopping and short flights, the three fledglings were rewarded with breakfast. Almost immediately, they settled onto their respective branches for a morning siesta, their soft down feathers spread out like a pillow, eyes blissfully shut. Sunshine flew over, calling encouragement to the two still in the nest. Nothing doing. 

Over the weekend, I saw Baby Moro on the cliff. He seemed untroubled to be resting atop a bush, catching insects overhead and playing with a small bird, perhaps a gnatcatcher that kept flying up to him. An El Moro parent was always close by and the ace-flying father entertained him with great dives and rolls besides showing him easy flights to try. 

Grog seems to be taking advantage of the fledglings' sometime absence to refurbish the nest. I have noticed him collecting sticks for repair work, I presume, as well as soft mossy bits to re-line the nest. Sunshine seems the more frantic feeder in the family while Grog keeps watch and provides a close shoulder for a fledgling to lean on. "Patience fills his crisp combs."

A Fifth Grog: Number 1 Flyer

Out and walking

What I missed early yesterday was the fifth Grog. While I was busy observing the four sweet beaks around the nest, number five had flown. He was out. When I discovered him several trees away in a mess of eucalyptus leaves, he was walking precariously across a horizontal branch, occasionally testing his wings.

Grog and Sunshine had him in their vision but seemed more interested in preening each other as they rested together on a tall wooden post. Occasionally, one of the parents would call a soft sounding encouragement before returning to their grooming. The two in the nest that had been out on a limb climbed back into the nest with the other two, perhaps waiting to see what might happen to number five.

After a while, Pater Grog flew over and perched near his son. Number five tried to climb an upward sloping branch to his father but his pearl gray feet (later to turn charcoal) kept slipping down the slick eucalyptus branch. Up he would go again, only to slide back down. Grog did show him a way out by hopping from branch to branch into a clearing where he flew a short distance away. Number five failed to follow.

Next, Mater Grog arrived with a snack. He fluttered his wings awkwardly to beg and Sunshine stuck some food down his throat. This gave him a bit more spunk and he slid into the fork of the tree and began playing with its sticks and gnawing on some of its leaves.

Soon he made a flight attempt and fell, catching some branches on his way down. But he was one tree closer to home. I only hope he made it.