There is a spot on the farm, just across the drive from one of the greenhouses, where Michael planted a few American cranberry bushes. Their fruit is not good for much other than attracting these lovely small, swift birds. When I walked past, the bushes were full of birds, and they were flying back and forth between the bushes and the greater shelter of the woods behind the greenhouse.
One of my field guides reads, “it is not unusual to see a row of them perched on a branch, passing a berry down the line and back again, bill to bill, in a ceremony that ends when one swallows the food.” It also claims that “the birds wander in flocks whose arrivals and departures are unpredictable,” though on the farm their coming is one more sign that the winter is truly ending.
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