Birding Notes

It was close to noon as I came up the last hill into our cul de sac on this warm, sunny first day of March. Even with the beautiful spring-like weather, birds had been few and far between on a walk through the neighborhood. But tiny bluets, yellow dandelions and pale purple henbit speckled our own front yard and a few grassy stretches along the roadside. Lenten roses bloomed in shady spots, and bright daffodils shined here and there. Maple trees are beginning to blush red, and Bradford pear trees have burst out in exuberant white, dusty bloom almost overnight.  

As I came up the hill, I heard a high, thin yank-yank call that was unmistakable, but I could hardly believe it. The call came two or three more times – enough for me to confirm it with the Merlin bird app, and then follow it to a large old red cedar on the edge of the road. And there, among the branches of the cedar not very high and only a few feet away, was a Red-breasted Nuthatch – a small, compact bird with a blue-gray back, a striking black-and-white striped face and a long, sharp bill. Its underside was mottled with soft tawny-orange and touches of white, orange even under the very short, blunt tail. A Red-breasted Nuthatch is not often found here in this part of Georgia, so this was a rare opportunity – and an unusually close and clear view. 

It was working on a thin branch of the old cedar, digging a deep gash into it with its sharp bill and seeming to find some prey there, maybe insects or mites. It continued to work intently on this one spot for several minutes, carving out shreds of wood and making the ragged gash deeper. From time to time it uttered very soft, short calls with a plaintive, intimate sound. 

Red-breasted Nuthatches live mainly in the far northern forests of North America and in winter migrate only short distances. In some years, however, they move south in large numbers, apparently driven by a shortage of winter food on their breeding grounds. During these irruptive years, they may be found as far south as the Gulf Coast. While I have not seen many reports of Red-breasted Nuthatches in Georgia this season, I may well have missed them, and there were early predictions that this might be an irruptive year. 

After several minutes, this little bird flew up a little higher in the cedar and began to explore branches there, but when a Tufted Titmouse popped into the spot where it had been working, the nuthatch quickly flew back down and dived at the Titmouse – chasing it away. Then it stayed to work more on the same branch. Red-breasted Nuthatches are known to be feisty, sometimes dominating even larger birds.

I watched it for at least 10 minutes – and I think probably more like 15-20 minutes. It was hard to hold up the binoculars for so long, but I didn’t want to walk away as long as it was in view. I had the time to watch the vigorous, energetic way the nuthatch moved and worked, and to study the brilliant black and white pattern of the face, the taupe coloring mixed with gray on top of the tail, and the shadings and textures of the orange and white feathers on its underside, orange the color of early twilight clouds. 

Finally, abruptly, it flew further up into the cedar and then flew away and out of sight.  

Very late this afternoon I walked through the neighborhood under a china blue sky crowded with clouds of many shapes and shades, the aftermath of heavy storms the night before – graceful white wisps of cirrus clouds, rafts of small, high, cottony puffs, streams of long somber gray, a few low, filmy dusky-peach clouds like pastel smoke, and a line of gilded and curled cloud castles low in the southwest. The sun was still well above the horizon but sinking fast, and as it did, the clouds all blushed and glowed and faded in different ways in a quiet, flowing play of light. The fleeting, everyday miracles of sunset.

The air felt cold and breezy, and for most of the way birds were even more quiet than usual at this hour, with just a few calls here and there. The song of a Carolina Wren. The soft clucks of a passing flock of Blackbirds. The chatter of a Carolina Chickadee. The blurry warble of an Eastern Bluebird. The rich chur-whee of an Eastern Towhee. The peeps of Northern Cardinals.

As I walked up a gradual hill near a pond, mostly watching the show in the sky, a scattering of American Robins clucked and chuckled here and there, moving from grass to trees and shrubs. Suddenly a small, sleek hawk the color of a storm cloud burst out of trees on one side of the road, and swooped fast and low across the road only a short way ahead of me, so close it seemed impossible. It crossed a yard and flew like a missile into a large magnolia tree – and a burst of smaller birds came out of the tree like a small explosion. I think there were only three or four birds that flew out – but it looked like more because the impact of the hawk had been so dramatic. The hawk itself also came back out of the tree very quickly, almost as if it had bounced. It flew up, over the magnolia, and stopped on a high branch of a nearby bare-limbed pecan tree, where it sat. I could only imagine it shaking its head and maybe smoothing its ruffled feathers. 

Wow. I did not have binoculars with me, so could not see it well, but I was pretty sure of what it was, and when I heard a bright kek call once, and again – I was even more certain. A Cooper’s Hawk. A medium-size raptor with a blue-gray back and dense reddish barring on the breast, and a long tail. It specializes in hunting smaller birds. Cooper’s Hawks don’t use the kek call often, so I was a little surprised to hear this, but it was very clear and repeated three separate times, all soon after it had settled in the bare-limbed tree. 

This one stayed sitting in the tree for several minutes more, but all I could see of it was a dark silhouette against a pale, fading sky. It seemed to be sitting pretty still, but it might have been holding a small bird in its talons. When I finally walked on toward home, it was still there. 

February’s gift to us this year has been a string of suddenly warm, spring-like days, and we’ve been having lunch on the porch most of this week. Today it was cloudy with no hint of rain, just softly gray, and mostly rather quiet. We lingered for a while after eating, and the quiet chup calls of a Hermit Thrush began to emerge from trees on the southeast edge of the yard – not quite close enough to see it, but I could imagine it well.

The Hermit Thrush is one of my favorite winter birds, and this winter we’ve been lucky enough to have one staying with us for the season. It often comes out to forage on the leaf-covered ground in the back yard not far from the house – a pale brown bird with a spotted breast and throat, and a reddish tail. Its shape is similar to that of a robin, and it usually stands with its head tilted upward in a watchful way. When alarmed, it might fly up to a low branch and sit there, flicking its wings and raising and lowering its tail, and calling its unobtrusive chup. 

A few minutes later, when we were just about to go inside, there was another rather loud, almost rough-edged call that I did not recognize at all. It was something like wreee, a rising note with a metallic quality. I tried the Merlin app on my phone – and, to my surprise, it immediately identified the call as a Hermit Thrush. 

I always think of a Hermit Thrush as being so graceful and lovely in every way, it was hard to associate it with this call. Its song is famously ethereal, and the winter chup sounds quiet and low. But this afternoon I did a little research, and discovered, indeed, a recording of a Hermit Thrush call just like the new one I’d heard. It’s described in slightly different ways by different sources, but usually something like a nasal, rising weeh or vreeh. It seems to be heard mostly in winter, but it’s not completely clear what the purpose of the call is.Sometimes I forget how often I am “watching” birds by listening to their songs and calls – and not always seeing them at all. And yet hearing is, in a way, another way of seeing. So learning a call that’s new and different is always interesting, and it adds a new touch to even the most familiar landscape – and a new dimension to even the best bird friends. 

This morning I slept lazily late. The clock said 8:00 am when I opened my eyes. The morning was softly cloudy and gray, and I had already slept well past the early morning bird chorus and sunrise. I closed my eyes again and pulled up the covers, feeling so deeply at peace that I didn’t want to move. Sometimes these waking moments – when there’s no appointment and no pressure, and when worries seem briefly far away – can hold the sweetest and most peaceful moments of the day. 

My eyes still closed, the pillows soft and the covers cool, I heard the brightly shining song of a Carolina Wren outside my open window. A Red-bellied Woodpecker purred its musical, springtime quurrr. In the background a Tufted Titmouse sang its plainer peter-peter-peter. An Eastern Phoebe lisped its sibilant song. A House Finch added a pretty tune from somewhere in the distance. A Downy Woodpecker rattled in a silvery cascade of notes.

The crackling, chucking calls of what sounded like a pretty large flock of blackbirds began like a rumor in the south and became louder and louder as the flock approached like a big gossiping cloud, and flowed over our house and yard. They seemed mostly to be Common Grackles – their creaking calls stand out – but maybe other blackbirds, too. I turned my head, but didn’t open my eyes or get up yet. Just listened. It sounded like the flock was settling in trees and on the ground around the house, but not for long. The birds kept flowing in wave after wave, and within a few minutes they had all moved on. And left a quiet, cool, cloudy morning in their wake. 

Three Tufted Titmice started it all, arriving with lively chatter and taking turns splashing in the water of the shallow birdbath that stands among several shrubs in our back yard. Sometimes one would sit on the edge to wait for its turn, another would wait in the leaves of a nearby bush or fly up to a low branch of an oak to shake off and preen. They all scattered when a big plump female Northern Cardinal flew in and settled herself right in the middle of the water to soak for several moments, letting her wings spread and float. Before long, one of the Titmice came back to the rim and sat for a few bold moments, as if to hurry her along. But then a male Cardinal arrived with a crimson flash – and all three of them flew away. 

It was soon after noon on a warm, sunny, very dry September day, with big white clouds crowding and drifting in a soft blue sky. A bright yellow American Goldfinch chose to go to a different spot for water – flying to the hummingbird feeder that hangs from the edge of the deck. It paused briefly, then went to the center of the feeder to cling upside down and drink from the water moat there. It’s a tiny thimble of water, but apparently suits the Goldfinches and also the Nuthatches, which also come often to drink there. Ruby-throated Hummingbirds were coming steadily to the feeders for nectar, and when a larger bird stops by, they usually back off, but sometimes hover nearby, twittering impatiently. 

Meanwhile, two Eastern Bluebirds appeared on the rim of the birdbath together, coming just to drink, and then flying together back into the trees. A House Finch came after them, also just to drink, and then flew into a pine to sing a cheerful-sounding song. Two White-breasted Nuthatches that flew to the trunk of a young white oak showed no interest in the birdbath, but spent several minutes searching the bark of the trunk and calling back and forth to each other in quiet, short, intimate notes. 

A Downy Woodpecker came to the rim of the birdbath and spent several moments sitting there and taking lots of sips of water – the biggest surprise of all the birdbath visitors. It did not get into the water to bathe, but it stayed for quite a while, just drinking. I think this may be the first time I’ve ever seen a Downy come to a birdbath to drink. Maybe they often do, and I’ve just not seen it, that’s possible. But it seemed unusual to me. 

Meanwhile, several Carolina Wrens sang and trilled and fussed nearby, and one visited the potted plants on the deck, checking out corners and crevices and cracks, searching for spiders and insects, and then sat on the deck rail to sing a loud, glorious song. 

On a gray, cloudy, cool and damp morning, few birds seemed to be out and around. But in one neighbor’s large, grassy yard, several little brown sparrows popped up into view now and then. When down in the grass, searching for food, they became almost invisible, but they frequently moved from spot to spot in short flights, and some also hopped up onto a wire cage surrounding a young gingko tree – where the bright reddish-brown caps, brown-streaked backs, smooth gray breasts and long tails of Chipping Sparrows could easily be seen, and their crisply marked faces with dark eyelines bordered in white or pale gray.

Chipping Sparrows are among our most familiar birds here. Through the summer months their long, level trilling songs can be heard almost everywhere. Even in the first week of August a few still were singing. But now the songs have stopped, and the small, lively birds have begun to gather in small flocks that forage together for food. The group I saw this morning was fewer than a dozen in number, but as the season goes on, they might gather in flocks of several dozen. Even then, they can be inconspicuous until something startles them into flight – and they spray up in a sudden burst of flashing wings.

It’s been a long, hot summer here, part of a long, difficult year. Early September has come to us like a sudden dream, with cool mornings and mild sunny days. I’m afraid to trust its promise. 

This morning began wonderfully cool – around 58 degrees when I first stepped outside, and sunny and bright. Ruby-throated Hummingbirds were already coming and going from the feeder, twittering, humming, and dueling in fast swoops and dives, hovering outside the screens to look inside and checking out red flowers on the deck, and somehow managing to come for quiet moments of sipping nectar now and then. 

Carolina Wrens sang bright songs and trilled responses. A Pine Warbler sang its gentler, lyrical trill from trees and dense vegetation on the edge of our yard. A Brown-headed Nuthatch or two called in their squeaky, cheerful-sounding way from the pines, just briefly. A Downy Woodpecker whinnied its shimmering rattle. A Red-eyed Vireo called in a harsh, whining way from a hidden spot in some oaks. A Tufted Titmouse sang peter-peter from not far away, and Carolina Chickadees chattered quietly.

By the time I got outside for a late-morning walk, the day had heated up quickly under a faded-blue, cloudless sky – and almost every bird around seemed to have taken refuge and fallen quiet, except for an abundance of Blue Jays and American Crows, and a couple of Turkey Vultures circling low, making shadows that swept across the grass and road. 

When a long-tailed bird flew across the road not far ahead of me, stopping in the lower branches of a pecan tree, I stopped to check it out and was surprised and happy to see a sleek, elegant bird as exotic in appearance as its name – a Yellow-billed Cuckoo, a slender, long bird with a smooth taupe-brown back and crown, cream-white breast and belly, and the down-curved yellow bill. The tail was long and, seen from below, black with big dramatic white spots. Touches of cinnamon color showed in the wings. It’s one of our most impressive summer birds, and one of the least-often seen because it spends most of its time high up in the canopy of hardwood trees. Its distinctive, percussive calls, however, can quite often be heard throughout the summer months. 

A Yellow-billed Cuckoo is not a fluttery bird. It takes its time, moving deliberately, almost royally, along and through branches and leaves as it searches for insects and other food – especially for caterpillars, a favorite. I watched it for several minutes as it hunted, moving from spot to spot, but not leaving this tree. It sat in a rather hunched posture over a branch, and then made a quick plunge back into the leaves – and turned back around with a long dark wiggling caterpillar in its bill. It shook the caterpillar several times, then worked it into its bill to eat.

After several charmed minutes, an especially loud truck came by and the Cuckoo disappeared, flying toward other trees further away from the road. But I’d had a wonderful time watching it! A brief, enchanted window into a world we so seldom see. 

There is some concern about the future of Yellow-billed Cuckoos because populations have declined by more than 30 percent over the past 50 years. Loss of the woodland habitat they need, with streams or other water nearby, is one of the main reasons for the decline, and efforts to protect or restore this kind of habitat could be helpful. 

In a shady stretch of road late this morning, a Black Swallowtail butterfly fluttered and floated around me long enough to see its delicate “swallow tails.” Its markings of yellow, blue, orange and red against the black wings were too much in motion for me to see the patterns in detail, but it looked fresh and very pretty. Like a miniature stained-glass window in soft, shimmering flight.

So far this summer, we’ve seen very few butterflies at all, so this one seemed all the more beautiful, and I felt grateful that it lingered long enough for me to enjoy it for a few moments before it floated up further and away. 

Early this morning it already felt very warm on the porch, but it was still very pleasant, the trees green, the sunlight looking misty as it filtered through the leaves. And there seemed to be more birds around than I’ve heard or seen in many days now, despite the extreme heat we are having. 

A Yellow-billed Cuckoo called from the oaks nearby. It stayed well hidden high up in the canopy, but gave its dry, percussive call several times. Then it moved further away, and I heard its different calls, a hollow, echoing cawp-cawp-cawp.

An Acadian Flycatcher called its sharp pit-sah! from trees right along the edge of our back yard, much closer than it usually comes. It, too, stayed out of sight – a reclusive little gray bird that mostly stays down in the woods near the creek. 

The soft pik-a-tuk calls of a Summer Tanager traveled through some thick vegetation nearby. 

A Red-shouldered Hawk called kee-yer loudly several times from a nearby tree, before taking flight. Two, three, four Carolina Wrens sang – always and still the brightest singers and most vocal of our birds, trilling, burbling, fussing. A Northern Cardinal peeped and made its way toward the birdbath. An American Goldfinch flew overhead, mewing a soft potato-chip, potato-chip. 

Two Ruby-throated Hummingbirds – one male and one female – came quietly and separately to the feeder. After a long period in which we’ve seen very few hummingbirds at all, they now seem to be coming a little more often, though still they are quiet, and I’ve only seen one encounter and chase so far. 

Later in the day the temperature would reach the upper 90s on this very hot 4^th of July.  

As I watered plants on the deck in the early afternoon – on a very hot, sunny day – the cool, fluted song of a Wood Thrush drifted up through the woods on the slope that leads down to the creek. The lovely, ethereal song seemed to bring with it the green and shade of the leaves, and the ripple of the water over rocks and sand. I stopped for several moments just to listen. We do not hear a Wood Thrush song very often this summer. Just every now and then, one comes by, and when it comes, I listen.