Moonbird by Phillip Hoose

Author:Phillip Hoose
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-08-05T16:00:00+00:00

Biologists working in the Arctic during mosquito season must ensure that their skin is protected

Four knot eggs blend in with the tundra vegetation, making them hard for predators to spot

A soon-­to-­be parent keeps the eggs warm

Nature had put B95 on a fast ­track toward in­de­pen­dence. He had to grow up quickly, for just a few days after he was hatched his mother flew away, spiraling up and off into the pale sky with the other adult females.

The fathers and other adult males stayed behind to keep the young birds safe and warm at night and protect them from predators. Danger was all around. Gull-­like jaegers hovered over the tundra, scanning for shorebird eggs and chicks to snatch up. Stealthy white arctic foxes and snowy owls ­were always near. B95 quickly learned that his father’s sharp cry meant to freeze right where you ­were. He was not yet able to fly, so his only defense was to remain absolutely motionless and rely on his mottled plumage to blend in with grasses and rocks. When a fox approached too closely, advancing and sniffing and finally raising a foot to pounce, B95’s father would explode into flight, giving a sharp warning call. Often a predator would fall for it—­chasing the parent instead of the newborns, only to be left without any prey as the adult bird veered away to safety at the last minute.

B95 grew very rapidly. His downy coat soon gave way to his first feathers, brownish gray with white edging. His black legs muted into a yellowish color. He was always hungry. Because it never got completely dark, he could spend all day poking around the shorelines and seeps for larvae, sometimes wandering back up a hill for the spiders that seemed to crawl over every tuft of grass. There ­were beetles and cutworm larvae. But even if there ­were no insects, an adaptable knot could get by on sedge seeds, ­horse­tails, and grass shoots.

B95’s bill was still not developed enough to jab for food, so he scooped his prey off the surface of the pond margins. He tested his new wing feathers with flights that ­were short and wobbly at first, but which steadily increased in altitude, velocity, and length. He learned to bank and tack into the tundra gales that whistled across the landscape. And then one day, when the wind ­rose and a slight chill entered the air, B95’s father disappeared, too, winging away with the other adult males.

Now B95 and the other young birds, not yet a month old, ­were on their own. They fed steadily, getting heavier and stronger, working their flight feathers, learning to read danger without the protection of adults. They remained on the tundra until the day, early in August, when an urge to leave seized them. It was not a thought, not an idea, but a powerful restlessness that took over all the young birds on the breeding grounds of the barren Arctic. Summer was slipping away. It was time to go.

B95’s fledgling days ­were finished.

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