08/16/2026
Near evening, the Pygmy Nuthatches begin returning to their home in a slender aspen scarcely four inches in diameter. They are little puffballs about the size of ping-pong balls.
They have spent the day foraging together through the surrounding ponderosa pines. As they move through the branches, they keep up a nearly continuous exchange of tiny squeaks and soft purring murmurs. The sounds are so quiet they disappear unless you are standing nearby.
They do not appear to come home at any fixed moment. One or two sometimes arrive early. They look around, find no one else there and fly off again. Perhaps it is not quite time yet.
Later, the flock gathers around the opening in a confusion of wings. One bird lands as another leaves. Three or four briefly crowd near the hole. It becomes almost impossible to count them, like a shell game played among the branches.
Gradually, they begin slipping inside. The activity quiets. The last stragglers enter and twelve small birds settle together inside that narrow trunk. There they share their warmth against the crisp mountain night.
Somewhere during the gathering, through those faint squeaks and purrs, they have agreed that the day is over.
