I’ve been living in my house on the hill, my house above the meadow, for almost 20 years and ever since the day that I moved in I have been feeding the birds. It all started out small, as these things tend to do, and then the feeding program grew and became more elaborate. Today, I have a total of eight different feeders, of various types, that hang in highly curated positions around my deck. A lot of thought has gone into the collection and to this day there is always room for minor, but essential adjustments.

The birds in my neighborhood have no ideas about any of this. To them, the area around the kitchen door on my deck is simply the place where food is always available. The local birds have learned this lesson well and a large group assembles for meals every day. I call this little community the “regulars” and I have spent untold hours watching them and getting to know the rhythm of who shows up, when, and in what numbers.

After spending all of this time and effort observing the birds, I have become very impressed by how difficult it is to identify individuals. Though I am certain that there are adequate variations among the different individuals of particular species, I am not able to accurately identify one from another. This has actually turned into a project of mine, but progress has been slow. Learning the faces of individual birds is tricky for a human. But every once in a while something happens to a particular bird that makes it stand out from the crowd and lately that something has come from the talons of the local hawks.

In addition to attracting a large community of passerines (aka “songbirds”) I have also attracted the attention of a much smaller group of raptors. There is a red-tailed hawk that spends a lot of time watching the back of the house in the hopes of catching a small mammal and then there are the “bird hawks” (the “accipiters”) that pay close attention to the songbirds. There is at least one immature Cooper’s hawk that has taken up residence in the neighborhood and I will also occasionally see an adult sharp-shinned hawk in the yard as well. The presence of these predators means that there is always a bit of an edge among the smaller birds.

If the blue jays are around, then the smaller birds benefit from the sentinels that often sit on the sidelines and keep a sharp lookout for danger. If the American crows are around, then the small birds are especially relaxed because the hawks have no interest in dealing with their drama. But hunger can often drive predators to make bold moves and there will eventually come that moment when a hawk (usually the Cooper’s hawk) makes an attack.

Usually, a jay or a chickadee will give a very clear and distinctive call that even I have learned means, “Hawk!” The birds scatter in all directions and the hawk will often zip past the windows in hot pursuit of someone. Usually it is a failure, but sometimes the hawk is successful. And then there are the near misses; those times when the hawk makes contact with a small bird, but just can’t quite keep hold of it.

The signs of such near misses are seen on several birds at my feeders of late. Mourning doves are favorite targets of the Cooper’s hawk and many of them show large patches of missing feathers that indicate a close call. However, one of the more distinctive signs of a lucky escape is the complete and total absence of a tail. At present there are at least four birds that have this issue: one jay, one dove, one white-throated sparrow and one black-capped chickadee, the last of which I want to focus on today.

This bird stood out from the crowd because the absence of a tail is so obvious that even I could pick up on it. Every time the bird showed up I would take a photo and as the days went by I was constantly amazed that the bird seemed to fly to effortlessly without a tail. For a week I would see this bird return again and again and I eventually named him Li’l Stumpy. Some days he wouldn’t show up right away and I would become concerned. When he finally did show up I would sigh with relief and make note of his appearance in my red journal.

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Then, about two weeks after his initially appearance, I noticed that his tail was starting to grow back. Slightly more difficult to pick out of the crowd, the bird had grown a tail that was similar to the stumpy little tails on baby chickadees that are growing their first tails. The bird was a full adult, but it bore a striking resemblance to a youngster, which only made him more adorable. Here was a bird that I had been able to identify as an individual for over 2 weeks and whose continued existence gave me great joy.

Well, I haven’t seen Li’l Stumpy in a week or so, but that is probably because his tail has grown sufficiently enough to allow him to once again blend into the crowd. I’m a little sad that I can’t track his progress any longer, but I am also happy because I am free to imagine that he is out there every morning and, come springtime, that he will find a mate, build a nest, and bring more little chickadees into the world. Li’l Stumpy lives on and my yard is a better place for it.

Bill Danielson has been a professional writer and nature photographer for 27 years. He has worked for the National Park Service, the US Forest Service, the Nature Conservancy and the Massachusetts State Parks and he currently teaches high school biology and physics. For more in formation visit his website at www.speakingofnature.com, or go to Speaking of Nature on Facebook.