Cedar Waxwing

Once again our region is in a time of transition. The season is changing, the long, hot days of summer giving way to the cool days and cooler nights of winter. With this transition comes a shift in the avian species that can be found in our Central Highlands.

Many of our stricter insect-eaters prefer more tropical southern expanses, where insects are active all year. Those that remain are birds that can sustain on our ample winter seed crop and others that prefer winter berries from any number of our native shrubs and trees. Included among these species are American robin, western and mountain bluebird, Townsend’s solitaire, and the subject of this article, the stunningly elegant cedar waxwing.

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Unlike some species I’ve seen, I distinctly remember my first cedar waxwing, though perhaps not the exact bird, as there were literally dozens of them at once.

I was still in the early days of my birding experience and driving through the industrial section at the south end of Prescott Valley. I spotted a flurry of activity in some ornamental pyracantha bushes along the road, and found a good place to pull off. Although I was still learning even the basic species, I knew exactly what these were the moment I saw them.

They were a bird that seemed so foreign to me as a kid that it didn’t occur to me that I could see them right in my home state, even in my own yard. The torso is in gradient shades of cinnamon, yellow, black and grey. While this may not be the most exciting color palette, the way they blend on a canvas of silky feathers gives them an almost angelic glow against the drab winter sky. A swept-back crest tops the russet head, with a contrasting black mask. At the end of the sooty-grey tail is a bright yellow terminal band, and the birds get their name from a waxy bright red substance that paints the tips of their secondary feathers. Despite all we humans have discovered about birds, the specific use for this waxy substance has eluded us, but at the very least it’s believed to be for visual courtship.

As I mentioned, waxwings are almost exclusively frugivorous, especially in the winter. Because of this preference for brightly colored berries, they tend to do very well in urban habitats, where ornamental fruiting florae are common. While they do love the non-native pyracantha, in our area they would be equally attracted to native plants such as manzanita, our various juniper species, hackberry, mistletoe and Wright’s silktassel, among others. Cultivating an assortment of these plants in your own yard will almost certainly attract waxwings sooner or later, along with other species.

Like so many of their feathered cousins, waxwings are more often heard first. Listen for a faint chorus of high-pitched, nasal whistling coming from the mid-levels of a nearby deciduous tree. They are a social species, typically moving in groups of ten to twenty. Noticing the way they flock can aid in identifying the species. They move through the sky as a school of fish swims through water. Waxwings stay in tight, harmonized flocks, seemingly choreographed along their meandering route. Compare this to their fellow berry eater, the American robin, which tends to fly in loose, beeline flocks. These little details will help you polish your identification skills well beyond what visual appearance can.

I want to end with a personal anecdote about this beautiful species. In October 2021 my father-in-law passed away. I found this out from my wife over the phone; she had rushed to the hospital where he’d been for the several days preceding his passing. I met her there and took her home. Later that day I had to go somewhere, and when I returned there was a lone cedar waxwing sitting atop a pinyon pine in our yard. I only knew it was there because I heard a single faint whistle, which cued me to look up to see its tawny glow popping against the cold autumn sky. It was so out of the ordinary to see only one, but I didn’t think much of it. The next day, as I left my vehicle again, I found a single, perfect feather in my driveway with the unmistakable yellow terminal band of a waxwing’s tail. I showed it to my wife, who made an instant connection in her mind; her dad was saying ‘hi.’

I think the lesson for me was that even in the darkest transitions of our lives, look for the flashes of brilliant color. It’s a lesson that should have a lasting impact on us all.