Amid the bustle of the sights and sounds that crowd the city, I sometimes forget to pay attention to the simpler delights much closer to home. Seeing birds flock to the garden is one of those. I’m proud of the variety of wildlife that’s attracted by the profusion of tropical plants outside in the yard – parakeets, cockatoos, starlings, sparrows, spotted doves, zebra doves, and even a pair of Oriental magpie-robins (the last is especially significant given that the species had almost gone extinct in Singapore just three decades earlier). However, none of them are as commonly-seen, or give me as much joy as seeing the sunbirds on their quest for nectar. Lately they haven’t been appearing as much due to the lack of torch ginger blossoms at this time of year, so I felt my spirits soar when I spotted this female busily feeding from a young flower.
I’ve sighted two species of sunbird in my garden thus far: the olive-backed and crimson sunbirds. To my surprise, I discovered that this female was neither – judging from the broken eye ring that framed her face she was, in fact, a brown-throated sunbird. Most of them come singly, all the better to take advantage of the huge torch ginger grove that flanks the side of the house. While the torch ginger seems to be their favourite, I have also seen them try to satisfy themselves from chilli flowers, pink powder-puff and clematis blossoms. Thankfully she had found a few newly-opened ginger flowers, and flitted from plant to plant, drinking nectar with a greedy urgency.
Occassionally she would look up with nervous alarm, darting her head from side to side before she resumed feeding. There would be times of the year where the male sunbirds would advertise themselves from the top of the fence, and dart around the canopy searching for mates. For now, however, she was merely watching out for danger. I watched, transfixed, from within the house, daring not to come too near lest she fly away. At last, her belly filled, she perched on the stem of a woody vine and began to preen herself. In the shade provided by the yam leaves overhead, her translucent flight feathers took on a delicate, greenish gossamer hue.
Suddenly, a series of sharp chirps cut through the air. She took off and landed on a taller branch, responding with a sharp cry that sounded almost accusatory. By this time I was watching them from behind a window, and craned my neck to look for the source of the sound. It was a male sunbird of the same species. The late afternoon sunlight fell briefly over his blue-and-purple head feathers, catching a faint iridescent gleam. Both birds launched into a verbal joust, calling loudly and flitting from perch from perch in agitation over the right to these stomping grounds. Though their cries might sound pleasant to the human ear, the songs of these birds have a much more pragmatic purpose: to assert themselves and help them fight for their survival.
After what seemed like a long argument, the male took off huffily. Almost instantly, the female flew back to her original perch and resumed preening herself, looking a lot calmer than she had been just seconds earlier. As some clouds briefly passed over the sun and left her in shadow, I stepped out to take a better look. Startled, she flew off, and I didn’t see her again for the rest of the day.
The milieu of the daily lives of animals is no less interesting than the daily lives of humans. I like to think that with their complex array of calls, displays and signals not easily understood by the human species, the animal life is a harder one to piece together and appreciate. Yet, that afternoon I felt like I had caught a glimpse into the window of what it would really be like to be a sunbird – the freedom to fly where one pleases, mingled with a turbulent undercurrent of the need for self-preservation. Such is the beauty and complexity of Mother Nature.