Culprits of Chaos

Of Fungi and Juncos

Recently a group of black-hooded characters came into our backyard and created a mess, flinging detritus, including rocks about a quarter the size of their heads, willy-nilly with what appears to be a determined goal of increasing entropy, which in some ways is fine, as that—more disorder—is the general state of the world, but is also annoying because I have to now deal with the disarray and reverse the tide of entropy, and counter the second law of thermodynamics, by sweeping the mess back into order, which, if I am being honest, it actually never was, because, despite my somewhat valiant attempts, our yard would be best described as untidy and wild, which, of course, I actually prefer over any sort of organization and cleanliness, so I should probably not complain about what my feathered friends have been doing. But I digress.

The culprits of chaos are quite a handsome lot, their dark head and neck, and darker eyes, contrasting with a pinkish bill, somewhat mottled black and white wings and back, and a buff chest augmented by lightly rufescent side streaks. In the birding world, they are officially known as Dark-eyed Juncos (Junco hyemalis). Junco comes from the Latin, juncus, in reference to reeds, which led one of the leading authorities on bird names, Ernest A. Choate, to write (quite appropriately, I think) that junco was “a singularly inappropriate name for a genus whose habitat is not among the reeds.” Apparently others didn’t cotton to junco, which wasn’t coined until 1831, and for many years the birds were known, particularly on the east coast, as Snowbird, either black, white, slate-colored or blue. That name aligns more with the specific epithet, hyemalis (from the Latin for winter); one of the first naturalists to describe them, Mark Catesby, saw the birds only in winter, down in Florida and the Carolinas.

So what were the juncos (~6 or so) doing in our yard? Not surprisingly they were seeking sustenance, most likely seeds, in the duff that had accumulated in the two-inch gaps between the concrete blocks (see above). I couldn’t discern what they were eating though I did watch them pick and nibble at 1/2-inch male, pollen cones from our Douglas firs. To find the food, and add to our yard’s and the world’s overall entropy, the birds employed a two-footed scratch, simultaneously hopping and flicking leaf litter (in this case Doug fir needles and male cones) backward. The delicate dance (known by some as the Junco jig or Snowbird shuffle) unearthed edibles though the birds I watched appeared to not find food more often than finding it. But clearly they were meeting with success, for they have kept up their scratching and pecking intermittently for several days.

Other birds, such as Northern Flickers and crows, might also be said to be crack addicts, excavating the narrow habitat that develops in weathered concrete. Many times have I seen ripped-up greenery and dirt on a sidewalk, tell-tale signs of stout-billed birds seeking a meal.

To paraphrase the classic Passover line, why is this year different from all other years? It actually may not be different; we’ve only had the blocks for two years (prior to 2022, a poured slab of concrete covered the space) so perhaps the year before, when no one messed with the yard, was atypical. Based on their plumage, the juncos appear to be this year’s second brood and were simply exploiting a food source they had found, not knowing that others had perhaps eschewed it; once one had landed and found comestibles, other youngsters followed, the proverbial birds of a feather flocking together.

A non-adult junco in a calm moment. Adults have a darker head and neck.

We also have one more species taking advantage of the new block-bound habitat. Far less messy and active, this being resembles a potato but is actually a mushroom, which I have been told is most likely in the genus Scleroderma. They first appeared last year fruiting in the gravel and growing to about 1/2 to 1 inch above the blocks before drying out and splitting open to reveal their dark powdery interior, called gleba. If they are Scleroderma, also called earthballs (to separate them from puffballs), they are poisonous. They showed up this year about a ten days ago.

I was told that the gravel and the fungi’s appearance were indirectly related. “It probably had nothing to do with the gravel itself, but some mushrooms like to fruit when the ground they are growing in is disturbed. It was probably under the ground in the area [and could have been there for decades, which is certainly possible considering the concrete we replaced had been there for at least 24 years] where you put the gravel, and mushrooms are known to try and force their way up through anything. The mushrooms are likely associated with some existing plant.”

The earthballs are by no means the lone member of their Kingdom that grace our place, adding textures and colors, as well as modes of existence. And, of course, the juncos share a trait with the robins I previously wrote about: widespread, abundant, and common, as well as wee of stature, juncos tend to be overlooked and yet are so fascinating, even if a bit on the messy side. Once again, I rejoice in writing of the simple pleasures found in our yard, and the value of paying to attention.