The ruby-crowned kinglet (Corthylio calendula) is what would happen if espresso became a bird. Weighing roughly the same as two pennies, this olive-green smudge cannot — and I mean cannot — sit still. Watching one through binoculars is like trying to photograph a fly using a telescope. Branch. Gone. Different branch. Gone. Now upside down. Now in your face. Now in Vermont.
About that “ruby crown”: the male has one. Allegedly. You will never see it. He keeps it tucked away like a secret weapon, deploying it only when furious at another male, at which point a brilliant red mohawk erupts from his skull like he’s transforming into a tiny Super Saiyan. Then it vanishes. Sometimes he may show it off to a potential mate, but much more brazenly if a rival male is also poking around, infringing on his territory. You will doubt you saw that flaming streak. It disappeared as soon as it flashed. You did.
For a bird the size of a cotton ball, the song is absurd — a loud, tumbling, three-part aria that sounds like a much larger, much more confident bird is hiding nearby. There isn’t. It’s him.
He flicks his wings constantly. Nobody knows exactly why. Possibly nerves. Possibly spite. Possibly because sitting still would mean admitting he is, in fact, four grams of bird.
Respect the gram. Find the crown.
