Birding Notes

So far this season, it’s been almost a year without winter. We’ve had a few good spells of freezing weather, with temperatures in the 20s, but most of December and January have seemed unusually mild, many days with temperatures in the 60s. For me it’s also been a period with unusually little time for birding – but there have been a few memorable sightings and days.

For the 2011 Christmas Bird Count December 17, with friends from the Oconee Rivers Audubon Society, the weather could not have been better – clear and cold in the morning, sunny and a little warmer for the rest of the day. Our count included a Hermit Thrush, at least two White-breasted Nuthatches, a good many Ruby-crowned and Golden-crowned Kinglets, a Cooper’s Hawk, a Hairy Woodpecker, four Field Sparrows perched together in a bush as if they were posing for a picture – and stunning, closeup views of a Red-shouldered Hawk sitting low in the branches of a small tree near the Oconee River, early in the morning.

But the highlight of the day for me came at the very end, as the sun was going down. On a high utility wire over a large, quiet field of weeds and tall grasses and briars – and full of sparrows – sat an American Kestrel.

When my friend Marianne Happek and I first saw it, I thought it was a Mourning Dove – embarrassing to admit, but true. It was silhouetted against an orange sky, with the sun about to go down. “No – look at the head,” Marianne said. “It’s not little. And the tail. It’s a Kestrel.”

And so it was – when we walked to a spot with a better view, I could see it then. And it stayed in the same spot, perched on the wire overlooking the field, for 30 minutes or more, the whole time we were at this location. We had come there looking for sparrows, mainly – and found many, including White-throated, Field, Song and Savannah Sparrows. But while Marianne waded with determination into the briar-filled weeds in search of more sparrows and better views, I stood on the edge and mostly watched the Kestrel.

My view of it was never very clear, because of the light, but as the sun went down, its back and tail glowed russet-red. It was a small but almost chunky bird with a very long tail and what appeared to be rather long folded wings. Once it fanned its tail, preening, and the last rays of the sun shone through the orange-rufous feathers. Bold black patterns marked a white face. Even though I felt frustrated not to be able to see all the details more clearly, especially the vivid colors of its plumage, it was still a rare sight, especially in the magical light of sundown and twilight, with the quiet sounds of the sparrow field below.

The sun went down and light faded quickly, from orange to paler orange and buff and soft gray. The tseet, chink, tsit, and chip notes of sparrows came from the grasses and weeds, birds settling in for the night. When we finally left, calling it a day, the Kestrel still perched in the same spot on the wire.

A small gray head striped with soft, reddish-brown was all I could see at first, the top part of a small brown sparrow scratching around in a matted pile of wet leaves in the corner of a yard, with three Dark-eyed Juncos. As the rest of the little bird came into view, I saw what I had suspected, and was pleasantly surprised to find – a Field Sparrow.

As their name suggests, Field Sparrows used to be so common in the pastures and old farm fields around here that I paid them little attention. Now they’ve become much less common here because suburban development has replaced much of the brushy, second-growth habitat they prefer. Although still considered common, their populations are declining throughout most of their range in the eastern U.S.

A Field Sparrow is a study in muted colors. Often described as dull and drab, it can easily blend in with the scrubby, grassy kind of habitat it prefers. But a closer look shows subtle coloring in earth tones with the look of soft-brushed suede. The dove-gray head and face are marked with stripes of warm sienna. The back and wings are darker brown and streaked, with reddish tones, the breast is a plain, pale gray or buff. A thin white ring around the eye gives it an alert look. Its small pink bill and pink legs are distinctive, and among the easiest ways to identify it. The tail is rather long.

Altogether its appearance is quiet and gentle, though I don’t know if its behavior reflects this look. Its song is simply lovely – a clear, light whistled series of notes that start out long and slow, teew – teew – teew, and build into a rapid crescendo of silvery bouncing notes, like a ping-pong ball. It’s a sunny, airy song that dances up over an old field or pasture in the summer like a butterfly.

This one was quiet, of course, in the winter, moving with quick, delicate focus, flicking small pieces of leaves and debris aside with its bill, searching for food.

On a cool, spring-like morning big sweeps of cirrus clouds spread across an open, soft-blue, sunlit sky. A small, compact hawk with a long slender tail was one of the first birds I saw as I started out on a late-morning walk. Flying just over the treetops it came toward me and circled around, directly overhead – a Sharp-shinned Hawk.

Its compact shape, with relatively small head, broad wings that arch slightly forward, long narrow tail with a very thin white band at the squarish tip – all could be seen with unusual clarity and detail. It’s one of the best and longest views I’ve ever enjoyed of a Sharp-shinned Hawk. Its head looked brown, the breast ruddy-orange, the wings richly barred in black and white, the tail with bands of dark and lighter gray, white on the tip. Once it fanned the tail out as it circled, but most of the time it was held long and narrow.

As it flew, its long thin legs were not tucked up against the body, but were held slightly out, as if kind of trailing along.

Its pattern of flight at first was a quick flap-flap-flap – glide, and as it began to make wide circles and climb, it flapped less often and soared on outspread wings, swiftly rising higher, until it was barely a sliver in the blue.

It looked like a good day for soaring. A little further on, in a more heavily wooded area of the neighborhood, I heard the kee-yer calls of a Red-shouldered Hawk from somewhere not far away, maybe hidden by the tree-line.

And several minutes later, three Red-tailed Hawks soared and circled, at least one of them hoarsely screaming, maybe because they were being harassed at first by several cawing Crows. As the Hawks climbed higher, the Crows seemed to lose interest and drifted away. The Hawks looked glorious, their deep brown backs, pale undersides and dull-red tails glowing.

Around four o’clock one sunny, cool afternoon last weekend, I noticed some birds in the trees outside one of our windows, and when I cautiously pulled up the blind, a tiny, bright Ruby-crowned Kinglet was moving through the branches of a water oak right at eye level, not three feet away. Its ruby crown didn’t show – but it was spritely and pretty, a clear gray-green, with white wingbars and white ring around the eye.

Further out in the yard, Carolina Chickadees and Tufted Titmice were going back and forth from trees to both of two feeders. White-throated Sparrows and Dark-eyed Juncos scratched in the leaves below the feeders and around the shrubs. Chipping Sparrows were feeding in the grass up near the roadside. Several Yellow-rumped Warblers flew from spot to spot in the trees, and House Finches perched on branches and visited the feeders. One Eastern Phoebe hunted from low limbs. Two Downy Woodpeckers checked over the bark of an oak, and a female Eastern Bluebird preened on a branch in the sun.

Two Yellow-rumped Warblers and one male House Finch perched together on the rim of the bird bath, sipped water, hopped in and out – and then one Yellow-rumped Warbler and the House Finch both plunged all the way in and fluttered their wings and bathed vigorously. This time of day – around 4:00 in the afternoon – often seems to be a popular time to come for baths, and though no bluebirds were here while I was watching this time, they’re among the most frequent afternoon bathers.

The most colorful part of the party – at least from my perspective in a second-floor window – came when about a dozen Cedar Waxwings suddenly appeared in a rush and flurry – almost hurtling down out of nowhere – into three large cleyera bushes close to the house. They dived into the glossy green leaves and rustled around so that the bushes were all aflutter with them. Three or four at a time came out into view, then disappeared again, and one emerged and sat briefly still and stunning – an unusually close and beautiful view. The taupe-brown plumage looked so smooth it might have been polished. On the face, feathery lines of white edged the black mask; an enameled drop of red touched the wing and yellow rimmed the tip of the tail. Altogether I could only breathe, “wow.” They did not stay long enough.

This is the most activity I’ve seen around our front yard so far this season. Many days this fall I’ve looked or stepped outside and could see or hear not a single bird – something so unusual I still am puzzled. This is the first year ever when there’ve been so few birds so often. So it was a particular pleasure to watch all this activity, and my only complaint was that I could hear nothing, because the windows were closed, and felt sure I was missing still other birds. But to open a window, even a crack, or to go downstairs and out the front door, would have sent all the birds flying, so I just enjoyed a silent show. The one exception was a pair of Carolina Wrens in nearby branches. The male’s full-throated song and the female’s rich trill came right through the glass – quite unlike the small chips, mews, peeps, chitters and other dry sounds of most of our winter birds.

On the same morning in early December – mostly quiet all around – a feeding flock of several dozen small birds spread out across a large grassy yard under several pecan trees, rustling around like dry brown leaves, so low to the ground and kind of in the shadows, they were all but invisible, even though there were so many. I might not even have seen them except for one bright yellow Pine Warbler among them that brought them into focus – lots of Chipping Sparrows, Yellow-rumped Warblers, several Eastern Bluebirds, a few Dark-eyed Juncos and House Finches swarmed over the grass, creeping and pecking. Two Carolina Wrens trilled and burbled around the trunk of a tree. An Eastern Phoebe even fed on the ground with all the other birds, searching the grass and leaves, foraging like the sparrows, making me wonder if maybe the cold of the early morning had made ground insects sluggish and easy pickings.

Then something startled part of the flock and Chipping Sparrows, Bluebirds and Finches flashed up, several at a time, into the low branches of nearby small trees. Dark-eyed Juncos scattered into a thicket, jingling with low, muffled alarm calls. Yellow-rumped Warblers fled in all directions, calling check as they went. The Phoebe flew to a low branch, bobbed its tail, and flew off to hover at a small hollow in the trunk of a tree, coming away with an insect, probably plucked from a spider’s web there.

About ten o’clock on a cold, sunny December morning, with a crisp blue and white sky, two Red-tailed Hawks sat in the upper branches of a large red oak just down the road from our house. This red oak is a favorite perch of many birds, including a Scarlet Tanager that sometimes sings there in the summer. The oak stands alone at the crest of the hill, spreading its craggy branches wide and dominating the view.

The limbs of the red oak are completely bare now, and the large, pale shapes of the two Red-tailed Hawks glowed softly against the blue sky, visible from some distance away. One faced toward me, and toward the sun, as I walked by. The other – slightly smaller – sat very close to the first, on a little higher branch, its back turned toward me, but its head in profile. They sat quite still as I passed, and did not fly even when I stopped to lift binoculars for a closer look. A loose band of dark brown streaks crossed the broad, cream-toned chest. The head and back were dark brown, flecked only a little with white – the plumage looked almost smooth. I didn’t linger long because I didn’t want to disturb them.

When I came back, after more than an hour, the two hawks were still there, sitting in the same spot, though now they both faced in the same direction, toward me and toward the sun. The size difference now was even more apparent – and I assume it was probably a pair, the female noticeably larger than the male.

I stayed outside for almost an hour longer, sitting in a chair on our front porch, watching the hawks and watching other smaller, busier birds around the feeders and bushes in the yard. When I went inside at noon, the two hawks still were sitting in the same place in the Red Oak tree.

Their quiet, majestic presence impressed me, in part because they stayed so long, and in part because their patience stood in such contrast to the way I usually feel – busy, with a long list of things to do for the day, and a constant process of figuring out what to do when and how long I can spend on each errand or task, and almost always feeling as if there are not enough hours in the day. But here were these two big hawks – spending hours on a cold, bright morning sitting peacefully in the sun, and watching. Their presence felt calming and wise.

On the same morning in late November, in another, more wooded part of the neighborhood, a Red-shouldered Hawk sat in the very top of a tall bare tree, near the crest of a small hill. Its coloring showed up even in the rather gray light – brown head and back, black wings flecked with white, and ruddy, reddish-orange breast.

Somewhat surprisingly, there were many active small birds around in this same area too – though maybe this particular hawk is not too much of a threat to them. Although a Red-shouldered Hawk will capture smaller birds, it more often feeds on small mammals like mice and chipmunks. Still, it seemed interesting to see the large hawk sitting conspicuously up in the treetop on a hill, overlooking a wooded area below that was lively with small birds.

I could hear the calls of what seemed to be several Golden-crowned Kinglets – all around in the pines and hardwoods, and watched two flitting around in the green needles of a pine, both showing golden-yellow crowns. Two Ruby-crowned Kinglets chattered jidit-jidit­ and one moved quickly through the low branches of pines, a tiny olive-gray bird with white wing bars and a white ring around its eye – but no ruby crown showing. Several Dark-eyed Juncos were feeding in grassy spots and flew up into low branches of trees when startled, flashing the white edges of their tails and giving soft, jingling alarm calls. Lots of Chipping Sparrows also flew up from the grass like sparks. A few Yellow-rumped Warblers flew from spot to spot. One Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, with crimson throat and crown, worked on the trunk of a young oak. A Hairy Woodpecker called from nearby in the woods several times, an emphatic, repeated peenk! – as well as Downy Woodpecker, Red-bellied Woodpecker, and a Northern Flicker. White-throated Sparrows and Carolina Wrens rustled and called in the bushes and Eastern Towhees called chur-whee. Carolina Chickadees and Tufted Titmice chattered in the trees.

Meanwhile, the Red-shouldered Hawk sat up in its tree at the top of the hill, just looking down on the scene around it.

A solitary Great Blue Heron flew over, its long wings slowly, steadily rising and falling, a large dark-gray silent form against the paler gray-white sky.

A flock of around two or three hundred Common Grackles and other blackbirds has been a regular feature in the yards and trees in our neighborhood almost every day this November. I don’t always see the flock, but almost always can hear them sometime during the day. Among them there have been at least a few Rusty Blackbirds now and then, and on one memorable morning toward the end of the month, twenty-eight Rusty Blackbirds perched in the bare branches of a pecan tree along the edge of a yard. I think it’s the largest number of Rusty Blackbirds I’ve ever seen together, and one of the easiest to see well and clearly.

It was late in the morning on a warm, cloudy day. I could hear the loud, harsh calls of Grackles in one of the areas where they most often can be found, and as I crested a hill, I could see the silhouettes of many blackbirds in the bare-limbed trees in several yards.

They were moving in waves, a few at a time, through the trees. But in this one tree several blackbirds perched and showed no signs of leaving, even when I got very close and stopped almost directly below them. This was unusual. I counted twenty-eight birds – and all were Rusty Blackbirds, considerably smaller than Grackles, with thin pointed bills. About half were male and half female. The males looked all-black, with pale eyes, but in some I could see the rusty tinge, especially on the edges of the wings. The females were in their elegant mixed shades of brown, rust, fawn and gray, with crowns that looked reddish-chestnut, a wide buff stripe over the eye, and a smoky-dark patch and streak through the eye.

Because populations of Rusty Blackbirds have declined so dramatically and there is concern for their future, it always feels special to see them, so I stayed and watched them for at least 15 minutes, maybe more. Most were facing in the same direction, and many were preening. They made low, intimate chuck calls. All in all, it looked and sounded like a quiet midday break.

Although they had seemed to be associated with the larger flock of blackbirds, they did not move with the others but stayed in this tree, and after several minutes, all the other blackbirds had moved on and disappeared. Against a deeply quiet background then, I could hear the high, thin calls of several Cedar Waxwings in a tree across the street. An Eastern Bluebird sang some blurry notes. A Red-bellied Woodpecker and then a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker both flew into the same tree with the Rusty Blackbirds, on lower branches. A Northern Flicker’s kleer and a Downy Woodpecker’s peenk came from nearby, like sharp punctuations in the quiet. Dozens of Chipping Sparrows moved around in the grass and dead leaves in the yards.

Though I seldom get such a beautiful view of them, I finally decided it was time to leave them alone and walked on, leaving the Rusty Blackbirds still sitting in this tree, still preening and chucking softly to each other.

Late Sunday morning leaves showered down in light breezes under a softly-clouded sky with some blue showing through now and then. Most of the pecan trees in our neighborhood are almost bare now – after freezing temperatures and heavy frost the past two nights – but oaks, tulip poplars, sweet gums and a good many other trees, shrubs and vines still are quietly colorful.

In a wooded area along the road, I was very surprised to find a bright and lively Blue-headed Vireo foraging in pines and water oaks along with several other small birds – Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, Downy Woodpecker, at least a couple of Golden-crowned Kinglets and one Ruby-crowned Kinglet among them.

The colors, markings and behavior of the Blue-headed Vireo were an eye-catching contrast to the sepia tones of the foliage all around – bold white spectacles on a dark blue-gray face and head, greenish back, pure white throat and breast and a glint of yellow showing on the sides. It was very active, moving more quickly from spot to spot than may be usual – a Blue-headed Vireo is known for foraging in a slow, deliberate, almost serene way. This one looked like a sprite, with light, quick movements so that it almost seemed to sparkle – a trick of the light. It hovered at the tip of green pine needle clusters, in what I think is called “sallying” behavior, flying from a perch to catch insects. Once it paused in a water oak with what looked like a berry or maybe a small acorn in its bill.

Blue-headed Vireos are common here in migration, both in spring and fall, but I haven’t often seen one this late in the year. This one was probably a late migrant still moving further south, but a few may stay here through the winter.

Meanwhile more than a dozen Chipping Sparrows, two or three Eastern Bluebirds and two Dark-eyed Juncos – the first ones I’ve seen here this season – were feeding in an open grassy area below the pines and oaks.

On down the road, the trees on all sides became quiet. I came around a curve, walked past a tangled brown thicket surrounding several tall pines, sweet gums and oaks, and ahead, in a bare-limbed pecan tree on the edge of a yard saw the large shape of a hawk – at first just a dark silhouette, then the rich, varied tones of a Red-shouldered Hawk came into focus, with ruddy red-orange barring on the breast, brown head and deep brown back speckled with white. It sat quietly, very still, looking down. Below in the grass, five or six American Crows walked around, apparently unconcerned, and several smaller birds and two squirrels were scattered out across the yard.

Though I stopped, it was only a few seconds before the hawk spread its wings and swept low across the road, across another yard and into the trees beyond – showing its colors in flight – the broad, pale underside of the wings, reddish breast and brightly-banded black and white tail. I felt sorry to have disturbed it.