By SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
sallies@juno.com

We'll remember this as the Winter of the Geese.

For the first time in the 15-plus years since the ponds behind our house were filled, Canada geese have wintered on them. The pied-billed grebes and ringneck ducks we usually see there have not appeared, although they are reportedly plentiful on Lake Peachtree.

Only recently have we begun to see a fairly stable presence of mallards, by the way, for the first time since their mysterious disappearance about this time last year. Maybe in past seasons there was not enough food in these weedy ponds to feed geese in addition to the ducks we had then. This year, despite the best efforts of the grass-eating carp, the geese are finding food aplenty in the shallows, and more than making up for the decline in the ponds' population.

Their comings and goings are always loudly trumpeted, a twice-daily source of wonderment to us. We have this theory that the voice boxes and wing muscles of geese are connected, accounting for the close association between noise and flight. Since Canadas pair up for life, you can just about bet that a small flock, especially if odd numbered, is a family rather than unrelated birds.

For most of this winter, we've had two flocks, one of five, the other of 14 birds. They compete aggressively with members of the other flock for the cracked corn we occasionally take them. Every evening, almost exactly at sunset, they crank their engines, and with mighty strokes of pinions take to the air, bearing toward the big lake or circling toward Loghouse Pond to spend the night.

And in the morning, in that silvery light that comes just before sunup, they herald their own return and the return of the day. Descending on parafoils, with a last-moment outstretching of feet to brake forward motion, they're ready to begin the day's business of eating, preening, bathing and defending territory.

The books say males and females are alike, and indeed they do appear so, formally attired, but in fact the gents are a bit larger. Look at their necks especially: his is quite thick and sturdy, hers amazingly slender. And did you know that that characteristic Canada goose cry is actually voiced by two birds? The Stokes' Bird Behavior series describes the call the male uses to keep in touch with his mate as a robust “ahonk.” The female utters a higher “hink.”

The calls are almost always given in perfect sequence so that few people realize they are hearing a well-synchronized duet. Spare me your stories of geese nipping runners and small children. Domestic geese may, but wild Canadas do not. Besides, these won't be here long; they'll very likely move further north to nest. Enjoy them while they remain.

We know the birds that come to our feeders like any good restaurateur recognizes regular customers. They are easy to please. Thaw and freshen the baths, keep suet, peanut butter and cracked corn coming, and we have a happy band of titmice, chickadees, cardinals, towhees and nuthatches. Of late, the yellow-rumped warblers have come, joined frequently now by goldfinch, house finches and red-winged blackbirds.

But this winter we've also occasionally fed a family of crows. We've always liked crows. They're smart, and smart-looking, and when they come near the house we love to watch the energetic way they commit themselves to their caws, watching cautiously, while they fold and refold their black umbrella-wings.

They're not interested in the feeders or the fallen seed, but I found something they do like. What do you commonly see ol' Corvus Brachyrhyncus eating? Right. Smashed squirrel, right on the street. Taking a clue, I wedged the carcass of a holiday turkey in a branch and for several days we watched six glossy black crows feasting with surprising daintiness, until nothing but bare bones remained. (Don't worry. We won't do this in warm weather.)

The excited cawing of a flock of crows is sure notification of a hawk nearby. But since this is not nesting season, and the crows are not protecting chicks, I suspect they mob large predators just for fun. No hawk handy? Not to worry. Several times this year, we've gone to check out the commotion and found our raucous friends harassing a bewildered-looking great blue heron trying to nap in the top of a tree.

It's easy to hear music in the spring flute-song of a wood thrush or the energetic repetitions of a Carolina wren (which one of my bird books calls “the Pavarotti of birds”). But do you ever think of a crow's sharp bark as music?

Neither the paired phrases of a brown thrasher nor the honk of a goose is a conscious song on the part of the bird. He's simply staking out turf or communicating with birds of a feather. We're the ones that assign worth based on human standards of beauty. Pity.

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