California towhees are comely, unobtrusive, chocolate-brown sparrows. Their favorite activity is double-scratching in the soil.

Sometimes I’ll be paying attention to more gregarious actors like squirrels, deer, or people, when I spy California towhees tip-towheeing around my yard. They remind me to notice the quieter species.

We’re aware of so little of the critter activity in our yards and neighborhoods. We become accustomed to ignoring ubiquitous bird songs and calls, yet they always reveal something.

A scrub jay screeches, setting off a raucous chorus of pic-pic warning calls from smaller birds protecting their eggs and chicks.

A Western fence lizard lays her eggs discretely in a clay cave formed by an old roof tile in the yard.

Poppies shout out to be noticed, but our dainty native iris — blue-eyed grass, can easily be overlooked.

A couple of weeks ago I was sitting inside by the patio while Dave was hauling wood chips outside. He nearly stepped on a 5-foot gopher snake crossing the path.

We both watched as it slithered straight-arrow through a succulent garden, up a 3-foot wall to our patio, 25 feet across the tiles, 2 feet down, across a brick walkway, up a retaining wall, and into a large patch of groundcover.

There he found his lady love, where they entwined for quite a spell.

We’ve been training our binoculars for weeks on an enormous stone pine near Carpinteria Beach that is supporting several great blue heron nests.

These are not your cute little songbirds — their enormous splats of white droppings alone testify otherwise. The first night I heard the chicks’ shrieks for food, I thought a hawk must be pecking them to death. It was merely a night feeding.

The parents were busy 24/7 until the chicks got so large that neither parent could squeeze onto the enormous nest. I wasn’t there when they fledged, but chances are it was also a noisy event.

Impact isn’t always noisy, though. I am amazed by the tenacity and strength of the grape vines on our patio. The shoots of these herbaceous vines are poking into cracks, inspecting any opening they encounter. Their tenacious tendrils move walls and crumble concrete.

In the fight for who will dominate the patio, we can win only with a wood saw. Grape vines are surely tip-towheers.

The hillsides and fields turned golden in early May, which maybe isn’t too unusual. But poison oak in our neighborhood has already turned red, and my goldenrod stalks are getting ready to bloom.

Is this because of the scant 10-inch rainfall, climate disruption, or some combination of factors?

Phenologists are tip-towhee monitors who watch these trends. They examine the timing in plant and animal life cycles and their relationship to climate and seasonal changes. 

Dedicated tip-towheeing reveals long-term transitions, such as introduced species’ out-competing native ones.

The Carpinteria Salt Marsh currently maintains one of the healthiest plant populations of the endangered Salt Marsh Bird’s Beak.

“Bird’s Beak is used by a few species of native bees, one of which is also endangered,” writes Dr. Anrew Brooks, director of the UC Natural Reserve System’s Carpinteria Salt Marsh Reserve.

Bird’s Beak is also favored by the endangered pygmy blue butterfly, one of the smallest butterflies in the world.

Unfortunately for the marsh and all of us, two highly invasive Sea Lavenders tend to form almost continuous beds and are pushing out native salt marsh plants like the Birds Beak.

Few people will notice the difference, but native bees and endangered pygmy butterflies will suffer the transition.

I’m reticent to mention two avoidable deaths due to my failure to tip-towhee. A few months ago, we trimmed our oaks in anticipation of the “free” chipping in our neighborhood.

One of the workers dragging branches down to our curb called me over. Beneath a downed branch were two large eggs, one whole and the other broken, exposing a large bird embryo.

In horror, I realized they were likely the progeny of two great horned owls who lately had been hooting me to sleep. I am still mourning our carelessness.

What happens when we fail to tip-towhee through nature? Our collective ignorance catches up with nature’s ability to overcome our errors.

Be still and observe.