#eclipse plumage

[primevalangels]

[notbecauseofvictories]

I fucking. love birds. I love them so much. "what if there were small friend-shaped beings who could fly" phenomenal!!

(and also sometimes a squirrel is there)

[tbalderdash-art-blog]

Gonna sell prints at a pride event in early August so I'm drawing more of a variety of pride flags. Mallard inspired by the fact that in the Summer the males go into eclipse plumage and look like females (but I did not want to draw all those individual feathers)

[naffeclipse]

Little Chicks

Penguin!Reader x Orca!Eclipse

Commission Info

I'm so excited to share this fic! The lovely @pluck-heartstrings requested a continuation of Cardinal Instincts with a mix of fluff and typical Orca Eclipse with some angst/backstory for the harpy reader! I also enjoy writing baby sirens Sun and Moon as well <3

Content Warning for mentions of death and angst.

———

Tiny flukes flip along the ocean’s surface. You watch the siren young closely, perched on the edge of the ice with your winged arms folded tightly against you. Though you’ve grown used to how the orca siren tests the babes’ abilities, your heart flutters nonetheless whenever one sinks a little too deep below the surface without acquiring a deep enough breath and you must swallow back a squawk of fear when the other gives anxious, tired chirps after swimming for a moment too long.

But Eclipse is there, scooping the little ones into his hands, and if they refuse to calm, he presses them into your lap and allows the familiar, comforting touch of your plumage to soothe them.

Your siren young, you remember. Emotion thickens in your throat as Sun flips his tail, flashing cream and golden colors. The orca siren child struggles across the shallow water in the half-submerged alcove. Moon’s teeth gnash together as he whines. Eclipse chirrs gently, encouraging the children as if they were of his own blood. It still surprises you that they are not, with their eyes each containing at least one yellow or scarlet hue. The brothers share a blue color to their gaze, however, and confirm that they are twins.

The icy alcove sheltering them from the harsher, direct light outside is comfortable. Though it’s far from your natural habitat of flat icy plains with plenty of diving holes into the water, you’ve dared to settle into this home.

Eclipse courts you still, and though you both share the work of caring for the siren young, he makes it clear with a flash of his hungry eyes that you are the only mate for him. The only one who will raise Sun and Moon with him.

You watch him now, while the boys occupy his attention. His sleek, black and white form dipped in deep red and dark orange is lethal in every capacity. He is the apex predator of the seas. His body is lithe with toned, sleek muscle. His jaws split wide into a maw full of shark-like teeth. Yet, his claws curl carefully over Moon while he lifts him back to the surface, and the soft sounds of the babe’s sputtering pull your muscles taut, insisting you dive after the babe. 

An instinct within understands how easily Eclipse’s natural weapons can turn on you, could rip you apart to feed his young, but then Sun is squeaking in anger. Eclipse turns to him quickly. He rumbles a soothing hum while holding Moon in the crook of his arm and gathering Sun in his other hand. His gentleness is always at the ready for his adoptive children. Your heart softens.

The siren lifts his eyes to you. In the light that refracts from the ocean surface and icy walls, his gaze glows brighter, hungrier. A shiver falls down your spine. How naturally your body remembers your place in the food chain. He closes the distance. His dorsal fin arches high behind him while strong, smooth motions of his tail push him until he’s looming over you on the shelf of ice you reside on.

A pulse starts in your throat. You gaze up at him, small and easily devoured, but he leans closer to nuzzle into the crook of your neck. The thick feathers covering your body ruffle under his persistent touch. A soft squawk escapes your mouth at the graze of his teeth over your sensitive, vulnerable throat.

“Sun and Moon must be getting hungry,” you breathe, fighting the heat that longs to stain your fluffy cheeks.

“They’ve worked up an appetite,” he agrees over the sharp squeaks and chirps of their demands. “They’re getting stronger.”

And hungrier, you note. Eclipse has been a provider, killing and retrieving meals of squid and other soft meat for the boys to tear apart with their nubby teeth. Eclipse explained to you once that these milk teeth will fall out once the boys have grown enough and will be replaced by sharper, more capable incisors. 

It might have scared other harpies like yourself to know these children who depend on you for food and warmth will soon become as capable and dangerous as Eclipse, but only a swell of pride fills you with the thought. They will become strong. They will thrive and no one will ever harm them. A gentle need to watch them flourish propels you to open your arms.

“When will you hunt for food?” you ask softly. Your dainty clawed fingers brush gently against the squirming, wet forms of Sun and Moon held in the crook of Eclipse’s arms.

A low grumble, deep and chilling, rolls through the orca siren and into you. You still when this jaws nears your lips. The press of his forceful kiss pushes you back slightly, and you give an indignant squeak under his mouth, tasting you like he may or may not sample the flesh hidden under your feathers.

“I’ll go now, birdie,” he murmurs. “I won’t keep Sun and Moon hungry. Wait here for me.”

He draws back to capture your gaze with his own. The intensity of his eyes, one red, one yellow, pierces you with the strength of the sun. A desire to look away, to shrink from underneath his power nearly takes you, but he growls softly.

“Be good, birdie.”

“I will,” you answer, then immediately flush. 

He nods smugly then presses a kiss to your cheek. You close your eyes though you are no less attuned to the sharp squeaks of protest of being slightly squashed between yours and his exchanges of fondness.

“Eclipse,” you mumble against his mouth, “The babies.”

A chortle escapes from his wicked jaws as he parts from you. At least, he eases Moon then Sun into your arms. The most natural embrace overtakes you as you cradle the precious siren young, though they are steadily growing, becoming just a little bigger for your arms than a regular chick might have been. It doesn’t matter to you. They are slick, warm, and safe.

Sun chirps soften into babbling chatter, his wide eyes beautiful and bright. On your other arm, Moon turns against your chest. His little nubby fingers grasp your feathers, clenching and unclenching, as his mouth roams for milk he will not find here.

“It’s alright, little chicks,” you coo at your children. “Your bellies will be filled shortly.”

You spare a glance at Eclipse, prodding him with a look but he lingers on the edge of the ice shelf. You lift your head, curious.

“They’re hungry,” you remind.

“I know, birdie.” His gaze slips into something like snowmelt as if he finds you simply adorable. “You’re beautiful. I simply had to admire how you take care of them.”

Your mouth opens but silence tumbles out. 

He flashes a wicked grin to your dismay. Pushing off of the ice shelf, the orca siren dives out of the alcove and leaves you simmering with pink heat. Your words fail on your tongue, but there is little you can say to the orca siren who has decided to make you his.

You are unable to resist sinking softly in the after waves of his boldness and courting gestures. A small pile of beautiful stones and gems has piled in the far corner of the ice shelf. Tokens of his love. Each beautiful pebble made you believe he couldn’t find a better one, and each time, he has proven you wrong. 

Pebbles are for building nests for a chick. To accept a pebble is to build towards a future, to prepare for the young that will come once two penguin harpies agree to be mates.

You press the memory of a small nest and a tiny, new life away from your thoughts. A nibble along your fingers draws your attention. Gazing down at Moon gnawing his nubby teeth along your hand, you smile. You gently free your fingers and stroke his head, sliding along the deep midnight blue appendage that falls down his head. The small bulb at the end is frilly and yellow. 

“Oh, my darling,” you murmur in a soft voice. You slip back along the ice shelf, waddling carefully to not slip with the babes in your arms before gently rearranging them to rest in your lap. Wrapping your winged arms around them, they will stay warm.

A sharp squeak turns your head towards Sun. Hunger rips through him loud and clear. You laugh gently as he begins wiggling, impatiently and restlessly. His sharp, golden, and white gold fins crowning his head twist importantly with the jerks of his head.

“I know, my love, I know,” you softly cup his cheek and pull him closer to your chest, holding him to keep him from slipping away. “Your father is getting you squid. Patience, Sun.”

The high-pitched demanding chirp that falls from him squeezes your heart. He is far too loud, too excited, and you laugh. Softly taking Moon against you as well, you lean back against the alcove wall and try to hum. They adore when Eclipse sings to them, but his vocal cords are powerful and entwined with magic. Yours are too strained and, in a word, unfit for a lullaby. The best you can give them is your warmth and protection. 

Your adoptive children.

Your mind drifts to a distant echo of sharp chirps. Insistent, hungry, and then, silent. 

A slow collapse shuts away your throat. Your hum cuts short.

The memory takes you like an ocean wave, pushing you down, deeper and deeper until you can no longer breathe.

Your chick was so small. He was beautiful. He chirped fiercely. Then he did not make a sound at all.

Shoulders heaving, your breath becomes ragged. It scrapes out of your throat. Your chest tightens. Tiny bodies squirm in your arms, little fingers sinking into your plumage and grip tightly, demanding attention, but your vision is far, far away, lost on an empty ice plain dusted in snow.

You held your little chick in your arms. He didn’t move. Your mate told you to let him go.

You couldn’t. You didn’t, not until your mate pried him from your hands and forced you to leave him, to let the snow bury him and the ice creep over him until he was cradled in the Antarctic cold forever. He has to be warm. You were keeping him warm.

What did you do wrong?

No one answered. 

A splash echoes in the distance. Wiggling bodies attempt to crawl away from you, eager chirps filling the air, but your vision is blurred over ice and water. A deep, abysmal voice calls out. You don’t answer.

You hold tighter to Sun and Moon, clinging to them. Their tiny voices grow louder as they fill with hunger. 

Another wash of water echoes throughout the alcove, and then a shadow looms over you. Something wet splats just a few inches onto the ice shelf. Then, a low rumble and claws crack the ice, dragging over the uneven terrain.

A hand falls on your shoulder. Claws threaten to sink into your flesh.

“Birdie, what’s wrong?”

A gasp wretches from you. You blink, staring up at the looming orca siren. His eyes blaze, searching for threats and wounds, but only finding you unlocking your fierce grip from Sun and Moon. The babies gleefully slip away from you. Their wiggling tails flip and flap, and Eclipse watches them carefully before pinning you with his stare again.

“What happened? Are you hurt?” he demands, growling with an abysmal darkness.

“No,” you gasp, “No, the babies—they need to eat.”

Eclipse hovers. When did he pull himself onto the ice? His tail sweeps along the cold terrain, his flukes curling to form a barrier between you and the water. You want to shrink. You want to bow your head and swim away—it wouldn’t be so different from when the colony decided you couldn’t stay any longer. 

A mush pile of chomped squid lies near Eclipse’s side fin. The siren young cry out. Slowly, Eclipse takes Moon, then Sun, setting them down by the food so they can begin tearing the soft flesh apart in their young moths. Securing them in the bow of his tail, he turns back to you.

“Birdie, tell me what is going on. I will make it right.” His clawed hands cup your face. You want to fall back, push him away until you can escape.

You can’t leave. Even wandering, you were trapped with what you’ve done.

Fear and shame form into a fine, frozen layer within you. You can’t look at Eclipse. His hand insists, pushing you by the chin until you're locked under his gaze again. 

“Be good, birdie. Tell me so I might rip apart whatever is causing you such pain,” he insists, snarling just under his breath. You tremble and touch his arm.

“I,” you gasp and it wheezes through you. Your throat closes up. You look once to Sun and Moon devouring their meal, unaware of their harpy parent dissolving into sea foam. “I was driven from my colony.” 

Something snaps within you. A great and terrible acceptance. A truth so ugly and rotten, you have no hope of holding its broken bones.

Eclipse’s jaw slackens. Teeth no longer bared, he slowly tilts his head.

“Why?” his eyes narrow.

He’ll know now you are unfit. He won’t have you raising his babies. You won’t hold Sun and Moon again.

You close your eyes and whisper, “I tried to steal another’s chick.”

Eclipse’s thumb slowly brushes along the fluff covering your cheek. 

“Go on,” he says in a shockingly gentle and low voice, as if you needed a lullaby in the dark of night, “Tell me, birdie. It’s alright.”

You quake. Opening your eyes slowly, you are filled with Eclipse’s soft gaze. His attention is fierce, ever sharp, but when he holds you, everything else falls to the wayside. 

A rattling breath fills your lungs.

“My baby,” your voice cracks. Eclipse’s gaze widens. “My poor baby died. He was so small… I don’t know why.”

“Such things can happen,” he says so firmly, you long to believe him, “It’s not kind, but little ones simply don’t endure by no fault of their own nor yours.”

“Eclipse, wait,” you grasp onto him tighter. He is your last island in the sea of your grief. He doesn’t understand.

“What of your mate?” he asks instead, his teeth glint.

“He left me,” you say quietly. A fact you have accepted long ago. Whenever you looked at him, you only felt the same grief again. “After my—our chick died, he left.”

Eclipse dips his head in the slightest, not exactly pleased, but reassured, in some way. You don’t know what to make of his expression.

“Then what became of you?” he asks in his growling cords.

You quake. 

“I don’t know why I did it. I just couldn’t stand it. Everyone with their chicks, hearing their little cries. I was alone,” you pull in a breathless gasp, “I didn’t stop myself. One little chick was unattended, for just a moment. Her mother was looking away. I wasn’t thinking at all. I just did it—I swooped in and stole the babe.”

Eclipse rumbles deep within his chest. You glance anxiously at Sun and Moon. Sounds escape Sun even as he chews vigorously. Moon is quiet, slurping down a tentacle. Eclipse draws a black-bone claw down your cheek, returning your attention to him.

“What happened?” he asks softly.

“I tried to feed her, but she refused to take any food from my mouth.” A strained sound, like a sob, escapes your throat. Eclipse hushes you softly, stroking the back of your feathered head. “She was crying—I told her I was her momma but she wouldn’t stop.”

The tiny babe was not your own, though just as small and hungry and fierce. The chirps were just a little off. They weren’t your babe’s.

Your heart twists. How could you ever have your little chick back? How could you try and replace one by taking from another? You were selfish and mad. You were trying to force another mother to go through what you just had.

“She wasn’t yours,” Eclipse answers simply, as if he might understand wanting something so terribly, and doing awful things to have it, but not being able to keep it.

You hold his gaze, wetness blurring your vision.

“It was cruel of me.” You shudder again. “They caught me. The colony decided I could no longer be a part of them. They sent me away. I could never return.”

Eclipse is silent for several heartbeats. You sit, heavy with shame and grief. His flukes brush against the little ones eating. A small complaint of being bothered during their meal rises in a sharp squeak. You glance over them, wishing to pull Sun and Moon into your arms again. What if you can never hold them again?

“That’s why you were waddling alone.” Eclipse sweeps a claw down your temple, almost touching your eye. Your eyelids flutter, and a great fear takes over you. Does he not want you anymore? Has he decided you will make a better meal than a parent?

“I still don’t know why I did it,” you mumble. You felt mad. You still feel unstable with loss and emptiness. You could only take and take to try and fill up the gaping place left within you. The baby you love so dearly was gone without a whimper.

And now two little sirens need your care. They are so beautiful and precious. Your heart bobs within you for longing to tend to them.

“You wanted your child back,” Eclipse hums. Your eyes lift to him, stained with tears. “You love your child. Now you have two little ones who need you. And you have been a beautiful mother to them.”

Stunned into silence, you blink. “You… you still want me?”

Eclipse chortles, looking at you as if you were simply precious.

“I have already chosen you as my mate. I have witnessed how tenderly you tend to Sun and Moon. I will have no one else but you, birdie.” He leans in and kisses your tear-wet cheeks. Your feathers ruffle underneath his affection. “Breathe, and when you are ready, you will hold our children again.”

Our children.

You cling tightly to Eclipse for one moment. His eyes widen. Leaning up, you lay a kiss on the corner of his mouth and smear salty tears on his maw unwittingly. You hope he doesn’t mind. All the while, he holds very, very still.

“They’re my little chicks,” you whisper.

“They are,” he rasps softly. Eclipse holds you until the Sun and Moon finish eating. Their cries of attention are answered as the orca siren scoops them up, one by one, and places them in your arms.

Your family.

[keys-home]

The image description is under the cut because it is six paragraphs of detailed text. The short summary is that it is a zine of different species of crows, accompanied by small drawings and facts about them.

[Image Descriptions: This pictures of a folded up piece of paper that has been made into an 8 page zine. Each of the photos are 1-2 pages in the booklet. All of the drawings and writing is in blue ink on white paper with light grey lines.

The first image is the cover of the zine. It says "Types of Crows," has a picture of a small bird on it, and says in smaller print "a murder guide by eclipse!!" with a small heart drawn on it.

The second image is two pages, with a bird drawn on each page. The first page is a Carrion crow. There is text on the page with arrows pointing to the carrion crow drawing that reads "Found in Europe" and "They're monogamous and mate for life." The drawing of the carrion crow is a rough sketch of a large black bird standing on a branch. The second page is a Hooded crow, with a drawing and text. The text reads "lifespan: 16 years" and "kraa kraa [the sound that hooded crows make]." the hooded crow is roughly drawn and has a black head and upper breast, black wing and tail feathers, and a white stomach and back patch.

The third image is two pages, again with two drawings of crows. The left page is a Rook, with text that reads "very shiny feathers" and "groups of nests are called Rookeries." The bird is a very shiny black, and the drawing attempts to capture that. The right page is a Mariana Crow, sitting on a branch. It is very stocky and roughly shaded in to show the dark plumage. Text on the page reads "asterisk critically endangered asterisk."

The fourth image is two pages, laid out the same as the other ones. The left side has a large drawing of an American crow, fully black and standing on a rectangle. There is small print that reads "We use them to track West Nile Virus (though they can't transmit it to humans)." On the right side of the page, there is a fish crow in flight. Its wings extend and it is very shiny. There are a few words on the page. Two phrases are emphasized, both sounds that fish crows make. "Ark Ark Ark" and "Waw-waw." The other text has an arrow pointing to the fish crow, and reads "little guy!" because fish crows are much smaller than most genera of species corvus.

The last page is the back of the booklet. It is completely covered by text, aside from a small row of hearts at the bottom. The text reads, "Those 6 are just the tip of the iceberg! There are over 50 genera of species corvus! You can befriend crows, and if you hurt one, it will remember you!" END IMAGE DESCRIPTION]

[blogbirdfeather]

Gadwall - Frisada (Mareca strepera): male in eclipse plumage

Vila Franca de Xira/Portugal (24/04/2025)

[Nikon D500; AF-S Nikkor 600mm F/4E FL ED VR with Nikon AF-S TC-14E III]

[twistedchristianscience]

eclipse plumage

based on that one tweet about birds on hrt

[todaysbird]

Today's birds are these surprisingly chill (eclipse plumage?) mallards :)

!

[joepaganda]

If the Juppet was a duck

eclipse plumage is the duck camo male ducks wear in the summer when they're not breeding to blend in with the environment and hide from predators, becoming nearly identical to a female duck. naturally, this means full chroma green for a joe hills inspired duck. in this case it's also just identical, as i gave the juppet duck a female duck's orange bill to reference the orange nose from the juppet's early designs. i also met a duck like that once so i wanted to reference them too. (i'm not sure what the right term is... it seems "intersex" doesn't actually apply to birds because their biology is too different from humans)

breeding plumage is the iconic coloring these ducks have most of the year. i kept the white stripes on the neck, wings and near the tail. the juppet duck's head is blue with white circles around the eyes instead of dark green and his tail is chroma green with the curled feathers forming an @-like shape where actual ducks are black. it's super lucky ducks have those feathers so i could work the @ in, i never noticed them before i started drawing this! i got a bit stumped trying to figure out what i want to color the rest of him because i realized joe's only signature color is chroma green and it's already established to be the camo color here, decided to try a purple to blue to light yellow rainbow (corresponding to ducks' brown to light grey) and got a really nice texture and gradient, so i'm keeping it

his claws are also chroma green in both plumage variants, i was considering giving the breeding plumage a different bright nail polish but green also looks the best there as it matches his tail

pretty happy with this overall :) now that i'm done, i vaguely remember originally planning to draw just one joe duck so that i could make it my profile picture because ducks are neat, it got a bit out of hand i guess

[despazito]

Pretty sure I found some eclipse plumage wood ducks

[homeofhousechickens]

Here is something red jungle fowl and high content hybrids go through that domestic chickens do not. Its called an Eclipse Pattern. Around June red jungle fowl will molt and while the hens stay pretty much the same the males go through a pretty drastic change in color. This molt will last in till October but it can last longer if the bird's environment isn't ideal but genetics can also play a part. Below is a captive red jungle fowl (likely a high content hybrid) going through his Eclipse Pattern. This bird is very stunning and has great feather quality.

Here is another Rooster in his normal plumage

both birds belong to Stanley Lor a jungle fowl fancier

[tunnelofdusk]

Do You Know What It Means to Be Loved by Death

ficlet: wolfstar, dark sirius black

Sirius Black comes back wrong.

—

“I would have waited for you,” Sirius says quietly. Death becomes him, his hair still grown long but now with the iridescent shine of a crow’s plumage. Strands frame his cold, cold eyes and ghost his high cheekbones.

Remus swallows dryly and Sirius’s dark pupils eclipse the grey of his irises. The wolf in Remus stimulates his adrenaline response until he is lightheaded, caught in Sirius’s unrelenting gaze.

“I would have waited for you,” Sirius repeats. A corner of his mouth curves roguishly as if they are just schoolboys once again riding on the high of a prank executed well. His eyes do not wrinkle, smooth and plastic.

“I missed you,” Remus says softly. He stares down at the ebony hardwood of the table in the Blacks informal dining room.

“Must be the wolf in you. You could never stand being alone, could you, Moony?” Sirius says.

A flinch and Sirius’s smirk twitches. Remus looks up from the table to Sirius’s crumbling facade of insouciance. There is something wrong with Sirius. He has the remnants of his old self, freshly escaped from Azkaban and single-minded in his pursuit for revenge. Yet, there is a foreign emptiness in Sirius’s eyes that raises hair on skin.

“I appreciate you keeping it in the family,” Sirius remarks. “Do you like her best with pink hair or black hair?”

Remus firms his mouth. “Don’t be crass, Sirius.”

A harsh bark of laughter hangs suspended in the air. Sirius died laughing; he is still dead. The wolf knows pack, but the abruptness of Sirius’s return disrupts Remus’s equilibrium. It is like a fever dream and Remus fears awakening.

“Remus,” Sirius breathes, worshipper renouncing his god—all scorn and misplaced faith. “Did you ever love me?”

That was—is—the problem with Sirius. He loved—loves—with an intensity to the point of exclusion. You could never find a more loyal partner and friend than him, but if his loyalty was not returned, he could never let that go. Remus does not love easily, but he had always known that there was a world outside the Marauders. He grew up as a half-blood with a foot each in and out of the wizarding world. Purebloods, especially ones as insular as the Blacks, lived in only one world that outsiders could never breach and that those inside could never leave.

“I still do love you,” Remus says. It is not what Sirius wants him to say. He wants him to renounce Nymphadora and admit it as a failure, a weakness that Sirius can magnanimously forgive.

“Dying isn’t a breakup,” Sirius says.

“Was I meant to be loyal to your gravestone?” Remus says wryly.

Sirius smiles and his eyes crinkle. “Yes.”

—

A sudden warmth at Remus’s back awakens him. It is the middle of the night and only a floating ever-burning candle illuminates the corners of Remus’s bedroom. Remus shifts and faces Sirius. Deliriously, Remus thinks about death masks and the constant grief it must have been to look upon one.

In the night, Sirius’s eyes shine in the way Remus’s eyes do when the full moon approaches. He is still so achingly beautiful. It hurts to look. Sirius is dead even if he has come back.

An arm hooks around Remus’s waist and unwillingly, Remus’s face settles in the crook of Sirius’s neck. The distinct scent of him suffuses through the air, the floral and woody notes of Sirius’s favorite cologne. Yet, there is a metallic undertone to it that makes Remus stiffen in Sirius’s embrace. It is like witnessing lightning strike before hearing the thunder—a sudden jolt leaving him on edge.

“I came back for you,” Sirius whispers. “Why won’t you let me in?”

How deftly does Sirius play a tame dog when he portends death.

“What…did you do?” Remus asks.

“What needed to be done,” Sirius answers.

Remus closes his eyes.

[ethanm8n]

Juveniles

August 22, 2024

Juvenile California Gull

Now that most of the local Olympic Gulls are out of their nests, scattered along beaches, docks and alleyways, I think it would be a good time to talk about juvenile plumages. I would also like to briefly explore the types of moult that young birds undergo in early life, particularly in their first year.

Juvenile Plumage

Nestlings in most species begin replacing their natal down in the nest in a process called prejuvenile moult, which results in juvenile plumage.* Juvenile plumages (and subsequent immature plumages, like those of larger land birds and gulls) are fascinating, fine-tuned to give a young bird the best chance of survival. Thrushes like American Robins are speckled with dots and teardrop patterns to confuse a chasing predator, while the muted grey and brown colourations of Larus gulls act as camouflage. In fact, as for adult birds, juvenile plumages serve multiple and often conflicting functions (e.g. predator confusion vs camouflage), which find balance through natural and sexual selection.1

Fledgling Swainson's Thrush. Notice the buff teardrops on the upperparts and speckled chest.

Formative Plumage

There is also a wide variety of moult strategies for immature birds. In most cases, juvenile feathers have to grow quickly, being semi-functional by the time the bird has left the nest. Because of this, these feathers are of lower quality than adult feathers. Combined that with the fact that most species have a longer delay between prejuvenile (first prebasic) and second prebasic moult than subsequent moults, many species have supplemental moults to maintain feather quality.2 The preformative moult takes place after, or even before, the prejuvenile moult has completed, producing formative plumage. In many songbirds, and small gulls like Bonaparte's and Franklin's Gull, this moult is limited to body feathers and some coverts, though there is much variation.

First cycle Franklin's Gull. This individual has some grey feathers appearing on its upperparts, marking the start of the preformative moult.

Alternate Plumage

Larger gulls (Glaucous-winged Gull, Herring Gull, Ring-billed Gull, etc.) do not have a preformative moult.** Whereas the prebasic moult is usually complete (replacing body and flight feathers) and coincides with the nonbreeding season, the prealternate moult replaces less feathers. Alternate plumage--think of it as alternating with basic plumage annually--is completed around the breeding season for many species, and is often when you see birds at their most colourful. Birds that take multiple years to reach adulthood still undergo this prealternate "prebreeding" moult--it just looks a little messy. When my local Olympic Gull Juveniles start developing grey feathers on their backs, that is the prealternate moult in progress.

First cycle Ring-billed Gull beginning its prealternate moult (light grey on upperparts).

I know I am throwing a lot of jargon around--moults, cycles and bears, oh my! If anything, this is just me, a novice birder, trying to express my excitement about such misunderstood and under appreciated subjects as the plumages of juvenile and immature birds and the process of moult in general.

Until next time.

*I might confuse a few people writing about H-P terminology and the WRP system in Canadian English. Hopefully more Old World articles begin to be written using these standards, trading in Life Cycle terminology, which has an initially shallow learning curve, with that which better accounts for eclipse plumages in ducks and variation in moult duration in neotropical birds.3

**Preformative moults actually occur in most birds, according to Pyle. However, it is not appreciable enough in the larus gulls I come across. I need to look into this further.

References

Jenni, Lukas, and Raffael Winkler. “The Biology of Moult in Birds.” Bloomsbury Publishing, 2020, pp. 10.

Pyle, Peter. “Identification Guide to North American Birds.” Part 1, Second Edition, Slate Creek Press, California, 2022, pp 16.

Wolfe, Jared D, et al. “Ecological and evolutionary significance of molt in lowland Neotropical landbirds.” Ornithology, Volume 138, Issue 1, 2021. doi.org/10.1093/ornithology/ukaa073

[mallardware]

happy halloween here’s some mandarin ducks plus assorted duck shapes (only female mandarin ducks/males in eclipse plumage because i did NOT want to draw all those feathers today)

[alexandreaiteiaabronia]

The Lotos-Garland of Antinous

by John Addington Symonds

Behold a vision of the world-old Nile—

Of porch and palace-tower and peristyle

Glassed in the oily current smooth and calm,

With many a fringéd mile of sultry palm

Shimmering in noonday sunlight! O the roar

Of the full-voiced swart-visaged swarming shore,

As the gilt barge, with flash of oars, and cry

Cast on the waters of shrill minstrelsy,

Down the broad tide bears Adrian the king,

Lapped in luxurious ease and winnowing

All husk of hard thought from his heart this day—

So men surmise—to laughter given and play!

Lo the full sails of Tyrian silk out-spread

Like wings of wildest plumage overhead;

The cedar masts with crusted pearl and scale

Of Indian beetle rough; the bellying veil,

Star-sprent, gold-dusted, hyaline in hue,

That tempers like a mist the burning blue

Ofthose bronzed heavens; the heavy-scented flowers,

Plucked from what dim mysterious temple bowers

Deep in the dewy twilight—tuberoses,

Starred jasmines, lotos, crimson chalices

With myrtles woven! Mid that bloomy sea

Are girls, half-seen, reclining dreamily;

Some white as swans unruffled, pure and cold;

Some glowing with the delicate dim gold

Of amber, warm on throat and neck beneath

Black heavy coils of lustrous curls that wreathe,

Snake-like, smooth temples. O the subtle stir

Of laughter and of little feet, the whir

Of fans like night-moths fluttering, mid the wild

Voices of choiring boys, that naked piled

On Persian broidery, to the sound of flute,

Viol and fife and soul-subduing lute,

Make music, piercing shrill and sad and clear

With yearning memories the drowsy ear!

On glides the flashing galley. But the king,

In Roman strength austere, each goodly thing

Serenely reckons. He hath felt the glare

Of shadeless deserts; by the Libyan lair

Of lions hath out-watched the fiery day,

Patiently waiting for his royal prey:

The clash of arms he knows, the thirsty march

O’er sands with wormwood set, where fevers parch

Black lips and tongue, and hollow eyes grow dim:

No Syrian wreath or crown of rose for him

The circlet of the Empire! And behold,

This morn in Theban temples dusk with gold,

While spiry flames from smoking altars flew,

And incense clouds voluminously blue

Sun-proof involved those columned aisles, the seer

Foaming with eyes fixed on the unseen Fear,

A rede of death enwrapped in riddling gloom

Had uttered:—yea, that even for him the doom

Of icy death, unless some spirit free

Of man or boy, unbought, might willingly

Yield life for life, amid the dance and feast,

When hollow-eyed grim Death seems last and least,

Lurked shadow-like. So spake the shuddering priest.

And Adrian heard; yet trembled not, but read

As in a book the doom of Rome dismemberèd:

For on his life alone the Empire hung;

And to his single strength the nations clung,

As clings a vine with leaves and weighty fruit

To some strong pine’s stone-circling massy root.

And none but Adrian heard—save one who stayed

Beside him; one in whose quick pulses played

Fire of free life imperious; a boy

Of nineteen summers, framed for power and joy.

Crisp on his temples curled the coal-black hair;

White myrtle flowers and leaves were woven there:

His eyes had solemn light in them, and shone

Flame-like ‘neath cloudy brows: his cheeks were wan

With passion; and the soul upon his lips,

Smouldering like some fierce planet in eclipse,

Breathed fascination terrible and strong,

As though quick pride strove with remembered wrong.

But oh! what tongue shall tell the orient glow

Of those orbed breasts, smooth as dawn-smitten snow;

The regal gait, processional and grand,

As of a god; the sunny-marble hand,

Grasping a silk-enwoven cedar-wand?

He heard, Antinous! and in his breast

His heart leaped, and his flaming eyes confessed

The fervour of his spirit; still and calm

Standing the while, like some full-fruited palm

Tall by a river-bank. Then forth they went,

The youth divine and royal victim, blent

In silent awe and blind bewilderment.

Down to the Nile they came, and eager men

Pressed round them myriad-voiced with wonder: then

Taking their barge, upon the stream sailed forth,

Downwards all day steering by West and North.

All day the lazy ripple to the prow

Whispered; and all day long by palms arow,

By cities populous with blazing quays,

By tracts of flowering bean and verdant maize,

They glided. Towers and temples sunny bright,

Like mirage in the desert, swam from sight

Behind them; and the wild tumultuous noise

Of nations shouting with a single voice

Grew fainter on the current. All day long,

Lulled to a slumberous symphony of song,

Sails flapped, oars flashed, and boys and maidens made

Cool music in the silken scented shade.

But Adrian dreaming lay, and at his side

Antinous with large eyes blank and wide

Lay dreaming. Thus adown the sleepy tide,

As in a trance toward Lethe through still air,

Lost to the joy of living did they fare.

But now the sun who all day long had driven

His glittering chariot o’er the enamelled heaven,

Began to wester. Level smote his rays,

A furnace-fire of splendour; and the blaze

Burned upon stream and city: in its fire

The pillared shrine and solitary spire,

Tall cypress or thick tamarisk-tangle, swam

Like clouds you scarce can see amid the flame

Of sunset; and the whole vast concave through,

Across the light-irradiate airy blue,

Ran conflagration. Then, ere day was dead,

The slaves who had that service came and spread

The Emperor’s table; and Antinous rose,

For his it was before the banquet’s close

To bear the wine-cup, at his master’s knee

Like Ganymede serving imperially.

He rose, and from his shoulder’s ivory

The veil fell fluttering to his rounded thigh:

Naked he stood; then on his forehead set

A crimson wreath of lotos, cool and wet,

Fresh from the tank, with ivy mixed; and bound

Roses about his breast; and from the ground

A tendril-tangled thyrsus raised, and flung

The quivering leaves aloft that clasped and clung.

Next half the lustre of his limbs he hid,

Like some night-reveller or Bassarid

Fresh-flown from Indian thickets, with the fur

Of panthers streaked and spotted, sleek with myrrh

And musky-fragrant. In his hand a bowl,

Carved of one beryl, soft as if a soul

Throbbed in its flush, he took, and called his crew.

They to their Bacchus with loud laughter flew,

Tossing flame faces, twinkling tiny feet

In measured madness to the timbrel’s beat—

Wild hair behind them flying, loosened zone,

And flowers about their flanks for girdles strewn.

Girls were they, girls with vine-leaves garlanded,

Or jasmines white as their own maidenhead!

Boys too; ye gods, the beauty of those boys,

Lithe as young leopards! the soul-thrilling noise

Of their shrill voices!—Bells are at their feet,

And silver armlets, tinkling as they meet,

Make the air mad.

Behold, in such wild glee,

With dance and music and with witchery,

Paced forth the youth, for whom it seemed that all

His life to come might be one festival.

Yet in his soul was sadness. Well he knew

That ere those lotos-flowers had lost their dew,

He forth would fare upon the dismal way

Of dying.—Thus of many thoughts that day

This one had triumphed: he would die to shield

Adrian from death, if so the doom revealed

By god-sent oracles might be withdrawn

From that great head.—Like Phosphor in the dawn,

Solemn he was and tender; larger eyed,

Of more majestic stature; and his wide

Bare bosom swelled with nobler weight of thought

Than e’er within his heart had yet been wrought,

Since from his fields Bithynian and the play

Of childhood, on a lustrous night of May,

He had been borne by pirate hands, and woke

To weep his mother.

Through the awning broke

The clear-voiced choir; but Adrian in good sooth

Rose from his pillowed couch to greet the youth,

So proudly paced he: and the dying sun,

Shooting that moment from low vapours dun,

Transfigured all his face; and in the glow

The ruddy lotos-flowers upon his brow

Blazed ruby-like, and all his form divine

Blushed into crimson, and the crystalline

Bowl of the gleaming beryl flashed, and dim

With dusky gold the fur that mantled him,

Spread tawny splendour. So he stood and smiled,

Bending his crowned head, like a god who, mild

To mortals, will be worshipped. Such a sight,

So framed, so sphered in music and sunlight,

Had ne’er in court or theatre or grove

Fashioned by Nero for his insolent love,—

Nay ne’er in Syrian valleys where the Queen

Mourns for her lost Adonis, on the green

Of Daphne or of sea-girt Tyre been seen.

He spake: ‘To thee, in semblance of a god,

To thee supreme, who Jove-like with thy nod

Scatterest states and kingdoms, lo! I come

Bearing strong juice of Bacchus. See the foam

Leaps in the crystal for thy lips, and red

As rose or maiden in her bridal bed,

Glows for thy kisses! Health for thee, my king,

Health and long life within the cup I bring.

Yea, were it mine, this youth thou thinkest fair,

(Fair in thy thought, for verily whate’er

Thine eyes have praised, is fairest,) were it mine,

Brief as it is, scarce worth one thought of thine,

(For lo, it blooms to-day, to-morrow dies,

Nay even now is fading, as the skies

Fade after sunset)—were it mine to give,

Thinkest thou, king and master, I would live?

Were it not well to die for thee, and know

There in the scentless myrtle bowers below,

That thou wert living this new life? What breath,

How sweet soe’er, were sweeter than such death?

Nay, Lord, I flatter not. This is no smile

Of hollow semblance on false lips to wile

Kind speech from thee, much prized by us who serve

For could I, from this will I would not swerve!’

Thus spake Antinous, and the table round

Murmured approval; for the honeyed sound

From those calm lips on idle ears like dew

Fell with fresh fragrance and a pleasure new.

Sophists were there, whom Adrian fed, and they

Clapped loud applause, averring the long day

Had kept till eve her flower of perfect speech:

For such fine flattery, like the perfumed peach

Most subtly flavoured, could no palate cloy.

Thus clamoured they, wine-wanton; but the boy,

Bending his lilied brow beneath the wand,

And kneeling to his master, with one hand

Lifted the cup:—a lotos falling stirred

The wine refulgent; then, without a word

Or smile, he raised the sunlight of his face.

But Adrian drank, keeping the flower to grace

His wreath; and bade Antinous take the bowl

Of beryl. Then he turned with graver soul

To some grey counsellor beside him placed;

And the cup-bearer with his revel passed

Forth from the tent imperial.

Lo, the West

Bathing with liquid lustre brow and breast—

Lustre of orange, amber, green and blue,

Glassed on the waves, and gemlike in the dew

Of heaven translucent; the cool breeze that flew

Past silken sail and tent-roof; the black bars

Of palm-groves and of porches; shimmering stars,

And the low moon to eastward, pearly pale

Mid roseate refluence! In one woven veil

Of varied hues the universal world

Seemed by some hand omnipotent enfurled,

Where in the midst the barge, a moving spark

Herself of light, yet mid such splendour dark,

Slept on her shadow. And was this the night,

Centre of all things fair, for thee to blight

Thy blossom with cold frost of death—to die,

Sweetest of all sweet things beneath the sky?

The decks were vacant, as at even-tide

Of chills and sudden dew-fall. Free and wide

The sandal planks thick-matted with bright wool

And furs and flowered embroideries beautiful,

Spread for his pacing; and the lazy plash

Of rippling waves that round the galley wash,

Cooled the clear air. He went as in a dream

Forth to the prow, land o’er the luminous stream

Leaned; and behold, a golden lamp up-borne

By Isis (on her brow the sacred horn,

And at her waist the lotos, leaf by leaf,

And flower by flower, twined in a jewelled sheaf

Of lilies) cast a glimmer pure as pearl

On the veined marble of the watery swirl.

Here stayed Antinous, while the darkening west

Deepened from crimson into amethyst,

From fire to blood-red orange thin and still,

Under faint streaks of tenderest daffodil

Which faded. Soon, as drops of fiery dew

Gleam on a withered primrose, so there grew

Forth from this pallor the intensest glow

Of Hesper’s love-star: tremulous and low,

Poised o’er the palms, he panted; and his beam

Danced like a living lamp upon the stream.

Then spake Antinous: ‘My hour is nigh!

Night cometh, and the guardians of the sky

Illume their cressets!’ So he rose and spread

The panther skin and thyrsus, and the red

Wreath of dead lotos laid upon the ground:

Next in his hand the bowl of beryl, crowned

With roses, from a gleaming golden jar

He rilled; and gazing at the level star,

Thrice made libation, crying: ‘Father Nile,

And Isis and Osiris! ye who smile

On mortal births and burials! lo, I give

My life for Adrian’s! Wherefore should I live?

Have I not learned to trail my manhood’s pride

In the world’s golden gutters?—Like a bride,

Sumptuous with sacrifice and pomp and choir,

Forth from the doors I issued; and the fire

Of Flamens shone to light me: now, alone,

With saffron veil unbound and broken zone,

My blossom withered, lo, a wanton’s doom

Awaits me, or the purifying tomb!—

Nay, even now I weary. Day by day

It irks me to consume the hours with play;

Hearing soft speeches, propped on pillowed down,

To gather smiles; or, when I choose to frown,

Drink womanish tears. Better I ween were strife

With lions than this fulsome flower of life!

And when the flower is faded, what remains?

Yea, heaven, I thank thee: lo, the little pains

Of dying bring me guerdon of great gains!

For in my bloom I perish, having bought

Unending honour. What I give, is nought

But a mere piece of boyhood thrown away:

While he, the Emperor, lives. Even so. This day

Dates a new aeon in the age of Rome;

Wherethrough, a name for ever, in the dome

Of people’s praises, I shall pace, and be

Equalled with heroes in mine infamy!

Nay, what on earth more godlike? I have heard

Of soldiers dying at a general’s word;

Of patriots who drained their hearts to save

A nation: they beside their fathers’ grave,

Before their city walls and smoking shrines,

Fell on the long resounding foeman’s lines

And perished: this was easy; yet they bore

Victorious crowns and hymns for evermore.

But I, what city or what home have I?

What duty, dear or sacred, bids me die?

A slave—the toy and bauble of a king,

Picked from the dust to play with—a cheap thing,

Irksome as soon as used—a cup to sip,

Then fling with loathing from the sated lip!—

Therefore I die more nobly. Where are ye,

My father and my mother, and the glee

Of brothers and of sisters, who were dear

Far off in years forgotten? Not one tear

Shall your calm unfamiliar eyes let fall

For me.—How like a gilded dream is all

The life that I have lived in glorious Rome!

How like a dream it leaves me!—Lo, I come,

Ye awful, soul-exacting, pitiless Powers!

Prepare your laurels and the moony bowers

Of myrtles! Not ignoble, not a slave,

I perish, but of mine own will, to save

The Father of the Empire.—I have seen

In Roman theatres the dying queen

Of weak Admetus, pale Polyxena,

Cheiron, Menoikeus; and the people, ah!

The people how they shouted! Tears and cries

Greet even an actor when he nobly dies:—

Will not the people of the unnumbered dead,

Showering their pallid crowns upon my head,

Nobly receive me noble, dying thus,

Calm in my strength, young, proud, luxurious,

Not torn by pangs, not wasted, not outworn,

But in my splendour?’

As he spake, a horn

Shrilled through the twilight; and he saw the tower

Of Besa, where that night they tarried, lower

Dusk o’er the champaign. Speechless from the bark

He dropped: she onward glided o’er the dark

Breast of the glimmering Nile with lamp and light:

He through the mirrors of the cool black night

Unruffled, dying drifted; and his death

Was seen by no man. Nay, there lingereth

Old legend in the town Antinoë,

Called by his name, a fair town and a free,

How that a flight of eagles from the sky

Down swooping, bore him, rosy breast and thigh

Lustrous like lightning on their sable plumes,

Up to the zenith, where, a star, he blooms

In that bright garden of the grace of Jove,

The martyr and the miracle of love.—

Of this the truth we know not; but we know

That in the town of Besa, where the flow

Of Nile is stayed upon the eastern bank

With wattles and with osiers, for a tank

That draws therefrom through sluices deep and wide

The living waters of the sacred tide,

There in the morn was found as though asleep,

The perfect body of the boy; and deep

Around him, known not till that day, there grew

Great store of lotos flowers, red, white, and blue,

But mostly rose-red, flaming in his hair,

And o’er his breast and shoulders floating fair,

And with his arms enwoven, pure and cool,

Screening his flesh from sunrise. Thus the pool

Burned with a miracle of flowers; but he,

Raised on their petals, pillowed tenderly,

And curtained with fresh leaves innumerous,

Smiled like a god, whom errands amorous

Lure from Olympus, and coy Naiads find

Sleeping, and in their rosy love-wreaths bind.

https://paganreveries.wordpress.com/2012/09/06/the-lotos-garland-of-antinous-by-john-addington-symonds/

Picture: My Antinous

[melissajanart]

The Bird of the Month this month is the mallard! That beautiful green headed duck you see at every lake and pond.

Have you been out recently and noticed that all the drakes have disappeared? That's because they are in their eclipse plumage meaning that after the breeding season they begin to moult. Ducks moult all of their flight feathers at once which makes them vulnerable so they loose their bright feathers and blend in easily with females and juveniles.