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.