The Horned Larks and Lapland Longspurs of December

A walk in the woods is so much quieter now. The chickadees are still there, along with titmice and a few noisy jays, but most of the woodland, birds are far south in tropical forests. The only sound you can hear is the chickadees talking to each other, or a woodpecker drilling for insects in the dead bark and calling its brief rattle as it goes from tree to tree.

In a sense, these birds are extra-terrestrial, living in the canopy of vegetation and rarely touching the solid earth. They will come to ground in search of fallen seeds, but they much prefer the sunflower feeder suspended high above the ground. They do not need perches at all, able to cling nearly upside down, as oblivious to gravity as a spaceman in orbit.

A walk in the fields will seem even quieter, but there are some songbirds which are very terrestrial, more akin to the dirt and sand than the trees. They live in the wide-open spaces of prairies and tundra, hugging the ground as if they were baby elves at the bosom of mother earth.

You can travel west or north to find these birds by the tens of thousands, but you can also wait for winter and enjoy them right here in New England. True, you have to visit our small versions of wide-open spaces, but those are nearer than you think.

On the fields and floodplains near the Connecticut River, you can brave the unbroken winds rushing free against your bundled skin and find the prairie birds. It may seem a fool's errand, but do it for a lark anyway. Eventually there will be a lift-off from the seemingly lifeless earth and the air will suddenly fill with what looks like blowing leaves.

Those leaves will most likely be horned larks, two hundred or more, flying in a loose formation just above the ground, then rising suddenly to a hundred feet and turning back and down to retrace their course. Around and above the fields they will go, sometimes passing just above your head, and the clear tinkle of tiny sleigh bells will reach your ear.

It is the voice of the lark on parade, the best we can do here in the new world, for the famous song the poets celebrate belongs to the skylark of the Old World, a near relative of this bird. The horned lark is the only member of this family that lives in North America, spread nearly throughout the continent wherever it can find bare fields or beaches.

Not long ago, a few of us were at Duxbury Beach and three of these larks settled down not twenty feet away on the top of a low dune. Magnified in our glasses, they looked like demons or trolls, the odd black feather tuft that gives them their name curled up from their heads. Their brown backs blended in against the sand, but the narrow black bib and mask framing the yellow on the face gave them a rakish look befitting the horns.

When not startled into the air, they walk the earth like tiny titans, secure and swift on their toes, the rear one especially long to hold them steady. They may seem like they own this turf all to themselves, but there is room for other prairie dwellers as well.

Most of these winter horned larks are from the northern tundra, but a few do stay here to breed. Two other tundra loving songbirds are rarer, coming only as the Christmas solstice approaches. One is the snow bunting, the other the lapland longspur, both members of the sparrow family.

We were walking down South Beach in Chatham a week later to find these winged riders of the wind with the long, spurred feet, and suddenly they rose from the ground, fifty or more longspurs imitating the larks in their flight, but giving off a cheerful chatter along with an occasional whistle.

Smaller than the lark, but just as brown, they seemed like elves rather than devils, and perhaps they are, gifts from the land of Saint Nick. The great seabirds flew all around us over the ocean, but on and above the grassy dunes the earthlings walked and flew and sang, weaving the magic of Christmas creatures.

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