Blizzard Warning

Persistent flurries, sleet and an arctic blast

A flock of juncos is called a blizzard. - Rachel Carson Council

Because they appear in winter and forage on the ground, other fitting, less formal terms used by birders include a flurry, a scatter, or a packet of juncos. - Google’s AI search results.

A flock of juncos is called a chittering, flutter, crew, or host. - Adirondack Almanack

Dark-eyed Junco Overview - Cornell Lab of Ornithology

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As the snow pelts down, juncos feast on the nyjer seeds I throw down for them.

Yesterday’s social media feed is filled with posts about winter storm preparation. “We are picking up water,” messages Kishia. Rochelle posts sage advice, “Cover outside faucets; stock supplies; keep pathways salted…”

My own preparations are meager, rather lackluster. I catch tap water in a few jugs, turn off the water to the outdoor faucets, charge the power bank, make sure all the devices are charged, especially camera batteries. There is plenty of food in the pantry, fridge and freezer and I have a gas stove. There’s a candle at the ready and I’m good on cat supplies. The landscapers will take care of the walkway and driveway. Much as I love to shovel snow, I sense this storm is best left to the professionals.

There are a few patches of white when I peek outside at bedtime. By morning, the ground is blanketed.

The empty bird feeder reminds me how woefully inadequate my storm preparations are for my avian friends. Several juncos flutter around the finch feeder, occasionally perching on it to grab a seed or two. They are clearly not in their element. The suet feeder is empty too. No doubt the woodpecker is sulking somewhere.

I pull on my boots, a thick jacket, a woolen hat and step outside to sprinkle nyjer seed for the ground feeders. There is a neat row of tiny tracks near the garage door. My boots gouge huge, uneven prints in the fluffy, white snow.

By the time I divest my winter gear, the juncos are hard at it, pecking away at the seeds I scattered. My camera shutter goes into hyperdrive.

Tabby looks longingly up at the sparrows that scold me for my lack of hospitality.

A sparrow flies up to the willow branch and chirps angrily at me. I shrug, “I’m sorry.” They will have to make do with the finch feeder. Seeing the bird, Tabby streaks to the window. “Chrrrr, chrrrr, chrrr,” she goes. Such a delectable treat, so close by, so inaccessible. The sparrow flies off in a huff, accusing me of favoritism. Guilty as charged. There’s something special about those fat, fluffy juncos and the way they persevere through the most frigid wind gusts.

A lone junco shivers in the bush as the snow swirls around it.

By mid-morning, the snow is thick upon the shrubs by the kitchen window. Birds burrow into its dense branches for a little respite from the unrelenting cold.

The bush outside the kitchen window looks like a heavily frosted treat. The snow quickly covers up any evidence of the snow plow’s activity.

The plow lumbers past the window, pushing a pile of snow along, leaving a painful gash in the white surface for a short while. The snow, still pelting down, sometimes giving way to sleet, fills in the rough tracks, rapidly restoring the unblemished, powdery surface.

A flock of snowy whirling dervishes dances past the back door, chasing each other, then doubling back on themselves.

The wind picks up, now and again, whipping clouds of snow around. A mystical sight on a slow Sunday morning when, chores done, I listen to Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me, then curl up, cat on lap and take a long, long nap.

A lace-edged, polka-dotted winter scene.

When I wake up, the snow is still falling fast. There is a crust of white along the frame of the back door and the panes are dotted with snow. The wind has died down a little, at least for now. Still wracked with guilt about those hungry sparrows and finches, I order what I hope will be a deer-proof feeder. Next time I will be better prepared for them, I tell myself.