North Island Brown Kiwi | A Bird Pretending To Be A Mammal | Dumb Stupid Birds #50

Greater Roadrunner | It Never Needed To Fly | Dumb Stupid Birds #56

It is a cuckoo. It kills rattlesnakes by slamming them against the ground. Every morning it spreads its back feathers and lets the sun charge it like a battery. The Greater Roadrunner has been doing exactly this - running, hunting, thermoregulating - for four million years. The cartoon got almost everything wrong. The actual bird is considerably more impressive.

Red-necked Phalarope | She Left. He Stayed. | Dumb Stupid Birds #55

The female is brightly colored. The female competes aggressively for mates. The female lays the eggs - then leaves, immediately, to find another male. The male incubates alone for twenty days, raises the chicks alone, and weighs less than an ounce. It also invented rotational fluid dynamics to hunt. The global population is two to four million and declining.

African Jacana | Carrying Four Children On Two Wings | Dumb Stupid Birds #54

The African Jacana weighs less than a lemon, has toes long enough to walk on lily pads, and carries up to four live chicks tucked under its wings during predator escapes - just eight tiny legs visible from the outside. The female is twice the male's weight, holds territory, mates with multiple males, and delegates all childcare. A complete inversion of bird family structure, operating calmly on a pond in sub-Saharan Africa.

Eurasian Wryneck | The Woodpecker That Quit | Dumb Stupid Birds #52

The Eurasian wryneck is a woodpecker that cannot drill, will not excavate its own nest, and eats almost nothing but ants off the ground. Cornered, it twists its neck nearly half a turn and hisses like a snake. The ancient Greeks spun it on strings in love spells, and its genus name, Jynx, is where English got the word jinx. You have been quoting it for years.

Clark's Nutcracker | The Bird That Plants Forests by Accident | Dumb Stupid Birds #51

The Clark's nutcracker buries between thirty thousand and a hundred thousand pine seeds every autumn, hauling them in a pouch under its tongue and remembering thousands of individual caches under deep snow for up to nine months. The forgotten ones grow. Every whitebark pine forest in the high American West was planted, seed by seed, by a plain gray bird with a brain the size of a peanut that was just trying to stash lunch. You forgot why you walked into the kitchen.