Bushtits, or no see 'ums

North Coast Land Conservancy/Teresa

If you are reborn as a bushtit, you will never have to be alone. Bushtits travel in fluffed out little bands of ten, seventeen, twenty, forty, and then some. There isn't a creature such as the Lone Bushtit. They are the heart of sociability. They are dark, restless little forms like commas or apostrophes in a tree. Their bodies are small like several cotton balls stuck together with a longish tail tacked on. Psaltriparus minimus is their "proper," Latin name. Minimus would be a fitting name for one of those teensie chihuahuas or a parakeet, or maybe for a large pit bull or giant goldfish. "Minimus, down!" These birds are accomplished knitters binding thready green, grey knee socks in trees to hatch and raise their young inside. Their nests are long, coarse, flexible, spongy tapestries of moss, webs, animal hair and other filaments the pair weaves together on the outer limbs of trees. They are remarkable in the nest world and unique. The hanging shelters would seem to have been blown there and snagged by the tree except for the little cheeps and shaking of the lichen threads when the bushtitties are active. If I were a bushtit to-be, I would be warm, dry and happy in my sleeping bag, with its inner lining of feathers right where my bushtit tush fits. The parents climb in through a small opening at the top of the tube sock and pick their way down with insects for their nestlings. A perfect arrangement, in all.