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Riding out the storm

Liz Lerner

Back in late December, on Christmas Eve to be exact, the Cape and Islands were pummeled by a massive transcontinental storm that had plowed across the Great Plains from Minnesota to Texas, bringing freezing gales and blizzard conditions to much of the Northeast.

During the night, the storm, with gusts of 65 mph, slammed into the back side of our house, rattling doors and windows and shaking the roof beams so that it felt like we were on a ship reeling through an agitated sea.

In the morning, as the house continued to be rocked by violent gusts and dry thunder, I happened to look out our back window at our bird feeder hung under the eave. The feeder tossed and twisted in the wind, like a miniature carnival ride. I was sure that all the birds had taken shelter somewhere to wait out the storm, but then I noticed a pair of goldfinches casually perched on the feeder and feasting on the sunflower seeds as if it were an ordinary calm day.

What quiet fortitude these small birds possess! I’ve noticed during other blows, when larger, more aggressive birds are hunkered down somewhere less exposed, these finches go mildly about their business, seemingly unaware of the storm that rocks them as they feed. I think of them as exemplary representatives of avian middle class virtues: steady, reliable, unexcitable, unruffled, unwilling to call attention to themselves.

As I watched them, their numbers gradually increased from two, to five, then ten, then a dozen. They comprised a “charm” of finches, as the popular term for a flock of these birds so delightfully has it. Most other species at our feeder — chickadees, nuthatches, titmice, blue jays, hairy woodpeckers, etc. — always seem to possess an edgy nervousness, diving in and scattering the birds already at the feeder, and in turn fleeing themselves when another bird swoops in.

Not so the gold finches. When another bird lands at the feeder, the finches that are already there do not flee, but rather they accommodate the new arrivals, as if saying, “Come on in, there’s plenty of room, boys.” In the face of destructive forces or aggressive competitors they do not panic. They take the measure of a storm, adapting rather than bolting, accommodating rather than defending their space. There is, I suspect, a metaphor about facing destruction here, but I won’t pursue it right now. I’d rather just continue watching these little self-possessed birds riding out the storm.

A nature writer living in Wellfleet, Robert Finch has written about Cape Cod for more than forty years. He is the author of nine books of essays. A Cape Cod Notebook airs weekly on WCAI, the NPR station for Cape Cod, Martha's Vineyard, Nantucket, and the South Coast. In both 2006 and 2013, the series won the New England Edward R. Murrow Award for Best Radio Writing.