Birding Notes

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. 

Early this morning under a clear, cloudless blue sky and bright sun, the air still felt wonderfully cool and pleasant, though the day would warm up fast into the 90s by noon. Birds were mostly rather quiet and reclusive already, as they have been for the past several days, but there were the sweet, cool coos of a Mourning Dove, the percussive call of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo, the soft pik-a-tuk of a Summer Tanager, the buzzy, rising notes of a Northern Parula, the whispery spee-spee calls of Blue-gray Gnatcatchers, the long, summery trills of Chipping Sparrows, and the blurry warbles of an Eastern Bluebird. 

So even though the overall impression was of quiet, shaded suburban streets with not a bird in sight much of the time, somewhere in the trees and bushes and thickets much more was happening than I could see.

As I turned a corner to walk into the neighborhood next to our own, I was surprised to hear the emphatic song of a Scarlet Tanager, coming from some tall trees on the edge of a wooded area behind the houses. 

I was even more surprised to see it – sitting in clear view at the very top of the tallest oak around, a silky, gleaming red bird with black wings, framed in green leaves and shining in the morning sunlight. It looked almost unreal. And it sang and sang, and stayed in the same spot for several minutes before finally flying away into deeper woods.

A male Scarlet Tanager is one of our most dramatically colorful birds, a medium-size songbird that’s clear, bright red all over, except for ink-black wings and tail. Though it’s so flashy in appearance, it’s well known for being hard to spot because it most often stays high up in the canopy in a wooded area, hidden among the dense foliage of a tree like an oak. The female is much less flamboyant in appearance – a rather dusky lemon-yellow with darker wings and tail. 

A Scarlet Tanager’s song is not especially musical, but it is loud and distinctive, a rather harsh-sounding series of phrases similar to a robin’s though not as pretty. I think its call is even more fun to hear – a crisp, expressive chik-brrr! that laces through the trees like a whisper as one or two Scarlet Tanagers move, searching the branches and leaves for insects and other prey.

Spring seems to be coming early this year, still an occasional frosty morning, but enough warm days to begin to bring out colors. Today has been a glorious spring-like day with birds singing and many flowering trees and shrubs already in bloom – Bradford pear trees, white-blooming spirea, yellow forsythia; and Lenten roses still blooming too, along with a few late daffodils. 

Eastern Bluebirds have begun to claim nest boxes – we’re pretty sure there are pairs in three nest boxes around the yard. And I’m especially happy that Eastern Phoebes have begun a nest in a corner over our garage for the first time in several years. 

Tiny bluets and sunny yellow dandelions have appeared in grassy yards and along the roadside, and in some few places violets are blooming among lush green clover, the violets deep purple and pale purple-gray. 

Yesterday we had another full day of heavy rain and thunderstorms. A dark gray day and very, very wet. As with other recent heavy rains, I could look out my office windows and see braided streams of water flowing downhill in our woods, and there is standing water in many places around our own yard and all through the neighborhood. 

This morning brought a bright, cool, sunny day with strong, gusty winds. 

Early in the morning a Carolina Wren flew to the deck rail right outside our kitchen window. It stood there in the wind, somehow clinging low to the rail, a small, sturdy, cinnamon-brown little bird with a long tail, a long bill, and a brassy, bold demeanor. The leaves of a Carolina jessamine vine whipped all around it as it sang, and trees tossed and swayed in the background. The wind ruffled its feathers, but the wren sat firmly on the rail and sang again, and again, a loud, musical, beautiful morning song.

Late on a dark gray, damp and cloudy January day, the sky was crowded with big leftover rain-clouds and a strong, cold wind was blowing from the west. Water stood and flowed in ditches and low spots and down hills all through the neighborhood, after yesterday’s heavy rains, and the ground was littered with small branches and other debris. All day a strong wind had kept the trees and shrubs tossing and bending and rippling wildly, as the temperature dropped. 

As I walked, the wind became a little less harsh, and the clouds were beautiful to watch, with blushes of pink and peach and cream here and there, appearing and disappearing, and small breaks where very pale turquoise showed through. But twilight seemed to come early, so when I saw a big dark shape among the tangled, bare branches of an oak near the side of the road, all I could see was a silhouette among the black-etched branches, sitting very still. But the shape and size were so distinctive there was never any doubt – it had to be a Barred Owl. With a very large, round head and thick neck, thick body, and a few tail feathers extending down from the branch where it sat. I could hardly believe my eyes, and came to a stop not far from the tree at all, and stood, looking up. This is the first time in many years I have seen a Barred Owl here, though we do still hear them now and then. 

And of course – I did not have binoculars. It was so late in the day, and so gray and so windy – and indeed, I saw and heard very few other birds. But rarely have I missed binoculars so much! Though it looked like full twilight, I’m sure I could have seen much more detail if I’d had them. A Barred Owl is large and mostly brown with white barring and mottling on its back and tail, and a buffy front with dark barring and streaks. It’s head and face are round, and its face is especially beautiful, with big dark eyes and very fine, intricate markings defining it. It does not have ears. As it was, I stood and watched and watched for many minutes. And the owl – sat where it was. Formidable and calm, mostly still, occasionally turning its big head one way or the other. It looked huge. I gradually moved a little closer and closer until I was right underneath the tree, but the owl was up pretty high, so I still couldn’t see any hint of color or detail. I tried some photos with my phone, without much luck, and even this did not seem to bother the owl.

Finally, I walked on a few steps further and turned so that I could see it from the other direction – and at that point, it flew, dropping down and turning away from me and the road to fly low across a mostly open grassy yard. Its wings flapped most of the way, not gliding. When it reached a line of trees beyond the yard, it flew swiftly up into one and at that point I had a very brief, clear view of its brown back and wings, before it melted into the woods.