Nondescript but melodious

Vesper and sparrow do not, in my mind, go well together. The dictionary defines a sparrow as a dull-colored songbird. Field guides describe them as brown and streaked, or as generally drab.

What does the word vesper mean to you? In today’s hustle-and-bustle world, it may be a term foreign to the vocabulary of many. Having grown up in a church-going family, vespers to me is a worship service at sundown.

According to the dictionary, vesper is Latin for evening, and is synonymous with evensong. Evensong is the Anglican equivalent of vespers, which is rightfully Catholic – of which the vesper sparrow is neither. As used in literature and poetry, vesper connotes peace and beauty – inspirational music and a stunning sunset.

So how is it that we have this little nondescript, stripy brown bird named vesper sparrow? It certainly isn’t stunning to look at. Its music is pretty, but not really out of the ordinary – definitely not church organ-type pretty.

Originally, the common name for the vesper sparrow was the great-sounding name bay-winged bunting. That’s what John James Audubon (that’s a great-sounding name, too) and other early ornithologists called it. There is a lot of confusion, however, about use of the name bunting in birding circles.

OK, now follow this closely: In proper 21st century usage, a bunting is a sparrow in Europe. In other words, what Europeans call buntings, we call sparrows. What Europeans call sparrows, we call sparrows, too. But we call our sparrows New World sparrows, and its we call Old World Sparrows. We used to call theirs weaver finches, but that’s a long story.

There are two introduced Old World sparrows in the New World: house sparrow and Eurasian tree sparrow. There are 49 native New World sparrows in the New World, but some are also found in Eurasia and Africa – those are the ones named as bunting over there.

Our New World sparrow group contains 33 birds named sparrow, but also six called towhees, two called juncos, four called longspurs, and, get this, four species officially called bunting. Our local example is the snow bunting – a New World sparrow called bunting.

In addition to all this nomenclatural confusion, in North America we have five species of cardinal-like birds, all called buntings, that are in no way related to Old or New World sparrows, or European buntings, or whatever.

So, just be careful when you see the names bunting and sparrow flying around. And if you don’t already know about Jack Sparrow, you will by the end of the summer. Now, back to vesper.

Well, some old sentimental fool heard the bay-winged bunting, or sparrow, or whatever it is, sing in the evening, and his poetic heart was touched. He christened it vesper sparrow.

In reality, the male sings the same song, all day, dawn to dusk. It’s how he advertises and guards the borders of his territory. It’s his invitation to a mate, and his warning to other males. He isn’t singing a special hymn for evensong. Birds don’t do that. That male is making a living, whether the sunset is pretty or not.

Bay-winged, however, is a name with meaning – well, assuming you know a little about horses. This bay”has nothing to do with a body of water, or howling at the moon. Bay is a reddish-brown hue used to describe a color of horse hide, but is more commonly referred to as chestnut in the current round of bird field guides. Personally, I like the descriptor rufous, as in rufous hummingbird, but it’s all the same color, more or less.

Bay-winged implies that there is color to the wing – something to look for more real than an inspirational song as the clouds turn pink at sunset. My daughter tells me the pink indicates that angels are baking cookies anyway, and has nothing to do with sparrows – or buntings.

And there is color to this bird’s wing, or shoulder, or wrist, or whatever that spot is properly called on the wing. Unfortunately, you don’t often get to see it, at least when the bird is at rest. I had seen this sparrow for years without ever noticing the wing patch. When it flies, the most noticeable aspect is its tail.

This is a big sparrow with a long tail, and the tail has unique white outer tail feathers that are quite obvious when it flies. At rest, the tail is also sharply notched. Juncos, pipits and meadowlarks likewise have white-edged tails, but they would be hard to mistake for a sparrow. This sparrow also has a white eye-ring that is distinctive.

But one spring day out at Farragut State Park, I was walking quite close to several of these relatively tame birds, and with the wind ruffling their feathers, I clearly saw the rufous spots. It was enlightening but not inspirational.

So, is bay-winged bunting a better name? No, not actually. Bay is outdated and bunting is confusing. Chestnut-winged sparrow isn’t good either. Actually, though, this bird’s scientific name, when translated from the Greek and Latin, is a good, descriptive, if not redundant, name: the grass dweller that loves grass.

And it’s very true, the bay-winged/vesper bunting/sparrow is a grassland species. So much so, in fact, that it flourishes in the treeless, open-range areas of the West, and is dwindling with the loss of old-field situations in the East.

Old-field situations? That’s an ecological phrase I really like – it has to do with succession, an ecological concept that I enjoy studying. It reminds me of the days at my grandparents’ farm when I was growing up.

Grandpa was an old-time farmer. His fields were clean and uniform – the ultimate in a disturbed ecosystem. His crops flourished because he kept out the weeds that immediately try to invade the disturbed habitat they require.

His neighbor to the south had a large field that had not been plowed in years. It was a tangled mat of various grasses, but there were few weeds. A small corner area had grown up to brush at the edges – mostly blackberry brambles – and an ash woods in the center.

Had Grandpa stopped tending his fields so meticulously, his disturbed ecosystem would have changed into an old-field. The neighbor’s old-field, over the years, shrank as the bushes invaded. I visited the area a couple of years ago and there was no longer an open field. The previously brushy area was a part of the woods, and the previous woods was only ash in the newer part and volunteer Douglas fir where the original ash had been.

The new owner of Grandpa’s place was still keeping the fields agriculturally disturbed, in the same earliest stage of succession that they have been in for at least 70 or so years. The neighbor’s place, however, showed the full parade of ongoing succession. If it were to remain untouched for another 50 years, the fir would take over and there would be a mature coniferous forest on the site that then would appear to not change much over time.

Centuries ago, there were probably few vesper sparrows on the East Coast. It was mostly mature forest. When agriculture arrived, there probably weren’t many either. But as fields were abandoned, there was a period in history when the eastern U. S. was a patchwork of old-field situations. Vesper sparrows were in abundance.

By now, those areas have been either developed, or allowed to succeed into forests. This is good for forest species, and bad for vesper sparrows. The latter are in serious decline in the East. That’s not necessarily bad, it’s just a process of ecological change for a grass dwelling, grass loving species.

Here in the West, vesper sparrows continue to thrive. But in the Willamette Valley where my grandfather’s farm is, and similar to the situation in the East, vesper sparrows are seldom seen anymore. And here in North Idaho, where you look for them will continue to have to change, too.

Currently, the old-fields of Farragut State Park are an excellent place to find vesper sparrows, along with other grassland species. But, due to succession, Farragut is constantly changing – moving back from the disturbed stage it was in as a naval training base back in the ‘40s, to the mature forest that one still sees across Idlewild Bay at the base of Bernard Peak. If not maintained artificially, those old-fields too will be gone – as will be vesper sparrows.

Again, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s simply the nature of ecological change – succession.

Now, if you still cling to the notion that the best evensong comes from birds, don’t neglect the robin. Robins sing deep into dusk, too. If, however, you feel the need for a christened hymn-singer, there are still plenty of vesper sparrows around. Besides Farragut, vespers can be celebrated on the Rathdrum Prairie and out toward Cataldo, along rustic Tamarack Ridge Road, where you might also see or hear a bobolink, uncommon in this area.

Be careful though, make sure that you are not being led astray. Savannah sparrows like all the things that vespers like, and they can look and sound very similar to the uninitiated. So be wary of the false religion of this usurper – but that’s a whole other story.