Turf wars over sunflower seeds

An essay by Chad Schomber

The bird feeder is the happening spot for local wildlife. It hangs from the twisted metal of a shepherd’s hook that leans a little too downward. An hanging plant injury. I check it every few days. Scoop in black oil sunflower seeds with a cracked plastic cup.

It’s house-shaped feeder rich with little details. Roof, windows with shutters, a chimney. Even a tiny door that swings open. Because why not? Now it doesn’t open inward. Let’s not be crazy.

That morning started slow. Heat hadn’t kicked in yet. Light came through the trees and spotted me on the porch. I had coffee in one hand and an elbow in the other, leaning against the post like a man paid to lean. It’s my way of looking cooler than I am.

First came the chickadees. Always first. They arrive like they’ve been here all along, blinking into existence one at a time. Little puffs of cuteness. They land light, take one seed, and vanish. No drama. No politics.

Then the cardinal. Male. Maybe female. I can’t tell. He showed up with cold confidence and parked himself right on the perch. Then started in on the seeds with speed and precision.

Two mourning doves cooed over. Too big for the feeder but they did that dumb dance of flapping, slipping, hovering like broken umbrellas. One made it the hook and perched, sulking. The other tried to wedge its belly onto the seed tray. It spun half a circle and fell off like a bowling ball in a tutu.

Then the squirrel darted in.

Gray. Big tail. The kind that moved like it was possessed by another, angrier squirrel. He came up from around the house, nose twitching. Didn't rush. Didn't sneak. Just marched up like a landlord.

He hit the pole and climbed it like he’d done it a thousand times. I sipped my coffee and waited.

At this point, the cardinal backed off. Chickadees gone. The doves stared blankly like they were trying to remember where they should be that wasn’t here.

The squirrel dropped down onto the feeder, tail flared like a dirty flag. He wrapped himself around it like a boa constrictor. Front paws scooped, back legs anchored, teeth chewing.

Sunflower seeds rained down like somebody opened a snack drawer in a wind tunnel.

That’s when the jay showed up.

Blue. Loud. He landed on the shepherd’s hook with a rattle. Like a ref about to officiate a title fight.

The squirrel stopped chewing.

The jay dive-bombed like Braveheart. Didn’t touch him, just swept low and fast, a blue blur of fury.

The squirrel hunkered. Then flicked his tail. Which, in squirrel language, is either a complaint, or a sarcastic applause. Hard to say.

The jay tried again. Another scream. Another swoop. This time he clipped the feeder, spinning it like a cheap carnival ride. Squirrel held on, legs splayed. Stubborn.

Another bird joined in. I don’t know what kind. I’m impressed I know these characters. They alternated dive-bombs while the squirrel clung like a barnacle in a hurricane. It was chaos with feathers.

Then, a third entry.

The blackbird.

Slick, mean-looking, the size of a Nerf football. It didn’t scream or swoop. It just sat up on a thick branch in the front yard tree. Watching.

The jay took notice. Hesitated. Nobody likes a wildcard.

The squirrel froze. Seeds in mouth, tail stiff.

And for a full six seconds, no one moved.

Then the blackbird launched. Didn’t aim for the feeder. Just slammed into the side of the pole with a noise like a wrench clanking on dirty concrete.

The pole shook. The feeder swung. The squirrel lost his grip.

He fell. Hit the grass with a dull thump. Sat there, blinking, like he’d just been fired from a job.

The jay and that other bird screamed triumph. One landed on the feeder. The blackbird kept watch from the branch like hired muscle.

Within a minute, chickadees came back. So did the cardinal. The mourning doves didn't. Can you blame them?

The feeder kept swinging.

I stood there with cold coffee. Watching. This whole time my dog was losing her mind inside, barking, racing between windows.

No lesson. Just nature reenacting an office drama with fewer emails and more feathers. Turf wars over sunflower seeds.

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