Birding Notes

Back at home, my spirits lifted because it seemed like I’d finally found all the birds. Tufted Titmice, Carolina Chickadees and a Downy Woodpecker were coming and going from the feeders. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet called jidit-jidit from some wax myrtles. An Eastern Towhee called a rich chur-whee, and two Towhees scratched up leaves under holly bushes. Several Yellow-rumped Warblers flew from tree to tree around the yard, scattering their quick, light check calls. 

From deep in the leaves of a bush beside the porch, the gentle face of a small grayish bird with a white throat and a white, broken ring around its eye peered out – a Yellow-rumped Warbler. A White-throated Sparrow flew into the same bush with a thumping flurry, and looked around. A bird bath stands very close to this bush, and they may both have been considering whether a visit to it was safe.

A stocky, heavily streaked bird flew to the feeder and sat for a moment on top of it, while a Tufted Titmouse sat below eating seeds. The new bird was one I haven’t seen here before, a small bird – but it didn’t look small. It had a sturdy presence. A brown finch, very heavily streaked on the breast and sides, and a striped face with a long white eyebrow and a large conical bill. It was a Purple Finch – a female or a first-year male. It’s the first Purple Finch I’ve seen in several years, and I’m not sure we have ever seen one here in Summit Grove until today.

Purple Finches are considered fairly common across much of the U.S., but they are not common here. A male Purple Finch is raspberry-red – much more colorful than the female, though her bold, brown-streaked plumage is striking in its own way. Although Purple Finches are described as widespread and often come to bird feeders, they have become less common in the eastern U.S. in the past several decades. Competition with House Sparrows and House Finches – two species not native to America – is thought to have contributed to a decline in their populations. 

House Finches are very common birds here, year-round. Both male and female House Finches look like smaller, washed-out versions of the more boldly colored Purple Finches. However, one study has shown that in competition between the two, Purple Finches lost out to House Finches 95 percent of the time – a fact that seems amazing to me, because Purple Finches look as if they should be more dominant. But looks can be deceiving.

The Purple Finch I watched this morning looked strong and aggressive. It chased the Titmouse away and sat on the feeder by itself, eating black sunflower seeds. When a second Purple Finch – also a female or first-year male – appeared on a nearby branch, the first one chased it away and returned to the feeder and kept eating. The second Finch stayed nearby in a tree – but then something startled them and they both flew away and did not come back while I was outside.

On a crisp, cold, brightly sunny morning, the sky burned a clear, cloudless blue. Touches of red, orange, yellow and rust spotted the green trees and shrubs like confetti. It was a beautiful fall day, and yet, all through the neighborhood a strange quiet prevailed. In the big grassy yards were no feeding flocks of small birds, not even a bluebird or a robin. No towhees or thrashers or sparrows around the shrubs. The trees on the edge of the woods stood quiet, and even the old field appeared empty of birds except for Blue Jays everywhere and American Crows flying over now and then. Gradually I could find the chattering calls of Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice and Carolina Wrens, an Eastern Towhee here and there, all sounding far away in the distance. The chuck-chuck calls of Red-bellied Woodpeckers were closer, and an occasional whinny from a Downy. 

From somewhere in the leaves of a water oak on the very edge of the road, surrounded by a thin tangle of fading grasses and weeds, skimpy bushes and vines, came a low, liquid call. Chup. Repeated again and again. Chup. Chup. It’s not possible to capture in words how lovely it is, the call of a Hermit Thrush, though it sounded somewhat forlorn in this spot, sitting on a branch among the spotty, orange-brown leaves of a vine that twisted up the trunk. The Hermit Thrush sat directly above me, so what I could see was its pale underside and the dark-spotted throat and breast, and the lifted head with its watchful eye. The reddish tail lifted and lowered, lifted and lowered, as it continued to call the low chup, chup. I only watched it for a few moments, before walking on, not wanting to disturb it more. 

Late this morning I was surprised to find a slender, greenish warbler moving along the lichen-covered branches of a pecan tree, searching for food. It moved quickly and intently over the branches, not fluttery or flitting from place to place. Because I haven’t often seen this warbler, it took me a few minutes to identify it – though I should have known immediately. Its breast was pale, and the soft buffy-bay color on its flanks and under its tail was distinctive. A beautiful Bay-breasted Warbler.

While identifying a warbler in fall plumage can be confusing and frustrating, it’s also a lot of fun, and this Bay-breasted Warbler stayed in clear view in the same tree for several minutes, so it was a good chance to study field marks. It was a warm sunny morning, and it helped that the warbler wasn’t fluttery or flying from place to place often. It foraged quickly and neatly along the branches and stopped often to eat something – some of what it ate looked like tiny caterpillars. 

This male was much less brilliantly colored than it would have been in spring, but the markings were still clear – dark wings with two bright white wing bars; a smooth greenish head; thin, sharply pointed bill; dark streak through the eye and a slight hint of a yellow band over the eye; a rather long tail – and I even got a good look at the underside of the tail itself, which was white, with a slight dark marking about halfway up. But the most obvious and definitive part was the soft buffy-bay color on the flanks and under the tail. It also showed this soft-bay color very pale under the chin.

Muted streaks on the sides confused me for a while, because most accounts of this species describe its underside as smooth and unstreaked. Back at home later, I eventually found photos on the Audubon Society website that show the blurry streaking in the male’s fall plumage – almost too subtle to see, but it’s there. And maybe in the one I watched there was some trick of the light that made the streaks show up more.

Bay-breasted Warblers breed mostly in northern spruce and fir forests and migrate through the eastern U.S. to winter homes in South America. They are considered an uncommon species whose remote breeding areas make them somewhat difficult to track.

I didn’t see any other Bay-breasted Warbler, or other migrant birds – though maybe there were others around that I didn’t find. This one seemed to be part of a small feeding flock of resident birds that included Eastern Bluebirds, a Downy Woodpecker, Carolina Chickadees, and at least five Chipping Sparrows, two of them searching along the pecan branches for food near the warbler. After a minute or two, the Bay-breasted Warbler flew at the Chipping Sparrows and chased them away from its branch. A Yellow-bellied Sapsucker mewed from not far away, and a Northern Flicker called a sharp kleer!

This morning was another clear, sunny day, and quite a bit warmer than it has been – very warm for this time of year. Birds throughout the neighborhood seemed widely scattered and few in number, and I was beginning to feel that things were too quiet. In truth, I think things are too quiet – there are too few birds and too few butterflies and moths, and too few insects overall. 

This is true, and not to be ignored. But today, two small quiet birds in widely different places brightened the day immensely, each in its own characteristic way:  The low, expressive sound of a Hermit Thrush’s call in trees on the edge of the woods; and the glowing beauty of a colorful White-throated Sparrow sitting in full sun on the edge of a privet thicket. 

Both are winter birds here, the first of the season I’ve seen or heard. 

The Hermit Thrush’s call came from a wooded area near a creek where there were few other sounds of birds at all, not even the chatter of chickadees and titmice. I was only hearing the background chirping of insects and the distant cries of crows and jays, and the sound of my own footsteps. But then a familiar low, liquid chup, repeated over and over, came from somewhere in the oaks and sweet gums and pines not far from the road. For several minutes I listened and scanned the lower branches of the trees for the thrush. It continued to call, chup, chup, chup, but stayed hidden somewhere in the trees and a lot of leafy vines. Eventually it fell silent, and I walked on.

It would have been nice to see, but this quiet little call is so much a part of the fall and winter landscape here that it’s almost as good just to hear. It sounds like mellow autumn shades, muted and earth-toned, like the yellow leaves of grape vines, and the crusty patches of orange in the oaks, the soft rose-green of the dogwoods.

Hermit Thrushes are solitary, woodland birds, not particularly shy, but unobtrusive and well-camouflaged in soft brown and cream with dark spots on the throat and breast. In winter they don’t stay in flocks with other thrushes, but often search for food on the ground with other birds like sparrows, towhees and pine warblers. When startled, a Hermit Thrush will fly up into a nearby bush or tree and sit watchfully, raising its cinnamon-colored tail sharply and lowering it slowly, over and over again, and calling its soft chup, chup.

Walking on, I passed large, grassy yards that looked mostly empty, but here and there an Eastern Bluebird flashed its brilliant colors, a Northern Flicker called a bright kleer! Red-bellied and Downy Woodpeckers rattled, a Carolina Wren sang and another trilled, an Eastern Phoebe sang its swishing song. Despite the warm sun, I saw almost no butterflies. Only two yellow Sulphurs. 

In the dense thickets of the old field just outside our subdivision, some sibilant tseeet calls cut through the traffic sounds on the nearby highway. There seemed to be quite a lot of rustling in the leaves of the privet and other rough shrubs, grasses and vines. A Northern Mockingbird flew to the top of a tree with dark-green leaves and sang exuberantly. A Pine Warbler trilled its softer, lyrical song from somewhere deep in the pines nearby. An Eastern Towhee called chur-whee. More rustling in the shrubs – and a pair of Northern Cardinals emerged briefly, followed by a handsome pair of Eastern Towhees, splashes of bold color in orange and brown and red, black and white.

When a beautiful White-throated Sparrow emerged on the edge of a bush in clear, full view, it looked as if it had blossomed there. Lit by the morning sun against a tangled background of faded grasses and rough weeds, the small, plump, elegant sparrow glowed with life – warm brown-streaked back and plain gray breast, bright black and white striped crown, gray cheeks, clean white throat, and the touch of a small yellow mark between the eye and the bill. I always think of a White-throated Sparrow as dapper – its colors and patterns so neat and crisp.

White-throated Sparrows, like the Hermit Thrush, are just arriving now, after spending the summer in northern forests. In the winter months here, they love overgrown old fields like this one but can also be found in yards with plenty of shrubs, and often come to feeders. 

This afternoon after a brief heavy downpour of rain, I heard the mewing calls of a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker in trees around our next-door neighbor’s yard. The rain had stopped, but dark gray clouds remained, and water still dripped from trees all around, already drenched from two days of showery rain, as the remnants of Hurricane Delta moved through. 

The mewing calls continued for half an hour or more, soft and plaintive among the sounds of water dripping on wet leaves, calling to mind a water-color image of a Yellow-bellowed Sapsucker with its boldly striped black and white face and crimson throat and crown. I hoped it might come closer, but it never did. But it’s always nice to know, at this time of year, that one has returned. 

At 6:30 this morning it was still dark outside my windows, and I lay awake watching and listening as the first light began very gradually to appear. Crickets sang and there were the sounds of dry cracking and scratching things, and an Eastern Phoebe sang far in the distance. My attention was kind of drifting when I realized I had heard the deep hoo-aww hoots of a Barred Owl. It wasn’t very close, and I could only hear one, but it called again, and again, four, maybe five times I think, each deep, hooted, booming, echoing call a sound I could feel as well as hear. 

After the owl fell quiet, a dry patter of leaves showered down in a breeze, and acorns thumped to the ground. 

Brown Thrashers began their smacking calls. An Eastern Bluebird murmured a blurry song, another Eastern Phoebe sang, this one closer, and four Carolina Wrens began to sing in different directions, all different songs. Then the harsh cries of several Blue Jays, the peeps of Northern Cardinals, the chatter of a Carolina Chickadee, and the chur-whee of an Eastern Towhee. American Crows cawed in the distance. A Carolina Wren burst into very loud song right below my window – past time to get up. 

Early yesterday evening Clate and I sat on the screened porch as the sun dropped low and then set, and light faded on another mild, lovely Fall day. What we could see of the sky through the trees was at first soft blue, then gently turned to cream and orange and soft pink. A few katydids began to sing and crickets. A lingering Scarlet Tanager called a sharp chick! from trees around the yard, now and then the full chick-brrr call. Cardinals peeped loudly. 

One little Ruby-throated Hummingbird sat on the feeder just outside the porch and sipped nectar until it was almost dark. Now and then it zipped off to a nearby branch or to sit for a moment on top of the crook that holds the feeder, but mostly it sat and sipped and sometimes twittered. I watched it, noticing the fine, delicate shape of its head, and the white throat with a faint pattern of speckles, and green, iridescent feathers on its back when there was still enough light to see them well, and the way the nectar rippled when the long tongue dipped in to sip. For the first day in many weeks, it seemed to be the only one around, so it stayed uncommonly still for a longer time. Just two days ago there were still at least two hummingbirds vying for position on the feeder – but even then, they weren’t spending nearly as much time on duels, more focused on feeding as much as they could, and often sharing the feeder. 

This morning when we came downstairs for breakfast, the feeder hung vacant. No hummingbird sat there, intently feeding after a long night. And when we sat on the porch for lunch, we didn’t see a single hummingbird come – or hear the bright, high twittering and humming, zipping sounds. So we wonder if the one we saw last night might be our last hummingbird of the summer, and if it might have left here during the night and begun its long flight south.

We don’t know for sure. We might still have others coming through in migration, and we’ll keep the feeder up for a good while longer. But it’s getting late in the year, and Ruby-throated Hummingbirds must leave for their winter homes in Central America. 

This summer of the pandemic, the Ruby-throated Hummingbirds have been among many birds around our woods and yard that have brightened the difficult times and reminded us daily of the things that matter most. This year that’s felt more important than ever. They’ve given us beauty. They’ve made us smile. They’ve kept us connected to the living world on which we all depend, and whose future we should be doing so much more to protect. 

After an all-day showery rain yesterday, this morning dawned clear and bright and sunny, and became a picture-perfect day to end the month. The sky was a deep September-blue, not a cloud in sight, and cool breezes kept the trees in motion and rang the wind chimes softly. Such heartbreakingly beautiful weather in such dark and painful times. The pandemic continues, and presidential politics dominate the news. The levels of anger, corruption, racism and utter lack of compassion are frightening. Every day seems to bring more and more grim news, of a kind we could never have imagined only four years ago.

Early this afternoon, a White-breasted Nuthatch murmured its low, intimate call from trees around the back yard. Ruby-throated Hummingbirds twittered and hummed, much less combative now than a week or two ago, more focused just on fueling up for migration. Carolina Chickadees and Tufted Titmice chattered inside the woods. 

When I saw a lot of rustling in the leaves of a dogwood tree on the edge of the yard, I watched for several minutes and finally a graceful Swainson’s Thrush came into view, eating a bright red dogwood berry.

A Swainson’s Thrush is a bird we only see here during spring or fall migration, and I don’t often find one even then, so it was especially fun to see – especially such a clear, vivid view. It’s a medium-size thrush with a plain brown back and wings, and a white breast with dark spots, especially heavy on the throat and upper breast. A distinct pale ring around the eye gives its face an appealing, watchful expression. It stayed in view only for a minute or two, then disappeared back into the leaves. 

Like other thrushes, Swainsons are known for their ethereal, fluted songs, which I’ve never been lucky enough to hear. They spend summers in far northern forests, and migrate through a large part of the U.S. to their winter homes in South America. 

The dogwood tree on the edge of our back yard has often attracted migrating birds in the fall, like the Swainson’s Thrush. It’s full of red berries now, and I’m hopeful we might see more birds stopping by in the next week or so.

On a soft, warm, dove-gray morning, lots of small birds flew back and forth across the road in a wooded spot, going from trees on one side to the other. Brown-headed Nuthatches chattered and a White-breasted Nuthatch called its nasal ank. There were Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, and a Downy Woodpecker. An Eastern Phoebe sang in the woods nearby and a Pine Warbler trilled its song. Among this feeding flock of small songbirds, flashes of yellow and green turned out to be at least three migrating warblers. A Chestnut-sided Warbler, an American Redstart, and – best of all – an elegant Blackburnian Warbler.

The first one I saw, flitting from spot to spot among the leaves, was a small gray-green bird with a round yellowish head, a gray face and a very distinct white eye ring, and yellow wing bars – an immature Chestnut-sided Warbler. It’s the first one I’ve seen in a while, though I used to see them here almost every year in fall migration. It’s a lively, quick-moving little bird that’s charming to watch as it searches for insects in the leaves and sometimes flies up to capture an insect in the air.

Closer to the ground, some other small birds were more fluttery, flashing yellow as they darted in and out of sight among the grape vines and lower vegetation. They seemed to be in constant motion, so they were hard to catch, staying mostly obscured by the leaves, but finally one fluttered up in a butterfly-like way, its tail flaring and flashing sunny yellow – a female American Redstart. While a male Redstart is black with bright orange patches on the sides, wings and tail, a female is gray and yellow, and the wide bands of yellow when the tail flares are especially noticeable. Redstarts are thought to flash the colors in their wings and tails to flush out insect prey. 

It wasn’t movement that drew my eyes to another, rather long and slender warbler moving along a branch. It was the deep-yellow throat and upper breast of a Blackburnian Warbler. This one, too, was a female or immature male. In fall plumage, its colors were not as brilliant as they would have been in spring, but they still looked vibrant and created a striking appearance. 

The head was olive, the face framed by a distinctive yellow eyebrow and an olive cheek that contrasted with the bright yellow throat. It was yellow on the sides, with dark streaks, and a grayish, streaked back and dark wings with bright white wing bars. The underside of its tail was very white with a dark tip, and when it briefly flared the tail once, it showed white in the edges.

I was able to watch for several minutes as it moved along the branches searching for prey in the leaves, and saw it stretch out low along one branch to capture and eat a rather large caterpillar.

A male Blackburnian Warbler in spring is a spectacular bird, black and white with a fiery-orange throat and face. They are mostly birds of the high treetops, especially in their breeding range in northern forests. But in migration like this, they may search for food lower in the trees or even in shrubs. They mostly eat insects, especially caterpillars, searching along branches and twigs and sometimes hovering over leaves to pick off their prey.

Early this afternoon a Ruby-throated Hummingbird hovered in a shaft of sunlight several feet above the ground, out in the middle of our back yard. A tiny, shimmering haze of green, it moved up, and down, wings whirring, for several moments, now and then making small, quick, darting movements. It looked like a dancing fairy in flight, iridescent and silvery-green. 

I think the hummingbird was probably catching tiny flying insects that we couldn’t see in this column of light, maybe a swarm of gnats or something like that. While hummingbirds are more well known for feeding on nectar, they also often capture insects – including gnats, fruit flies, mosquitoes, small bees and small caterpillars. They glean insects from leaves, pull spiders from webs, and hunt by perching on a tree branch and flying off to capture insects in the air – “hawking” like a flycatcher. 

According to one source I found, some observers even refer to hummingbirds in general as “nectar-powered flycatchers,” suggesting that insects and spiders may be equally or even more important in their diet than nectar. Another source noted there is much more to be learned about the importance of insects in the diet of hummingbirds.  

The behavior we watched was a little different because this hummingbird was not returning to a branch like a flycatcher, it hovered in this one shaft of sunlight out in the middle of the yard for two or three minutes, up and down, and then it flew away, out of the light and toward the shady woods.