Birding Notes

And then – turning attention from the clear, colorful light in a treetop back to the murky tangles of the thicket – a dark shadow emerged and hopped up to the top of a bush – a Gray Catbird. What a surprise! All sleek, slate-gray with an ink-black cap, it sat with its tail slightly held up, erect and alert, looking around, and even mewed once. Then it flew to another spot, a low branch in an oak, and stayed there for several seconds before diving back out of sight into the weeds.

It might have wintered here, but if so, it’s been very quiet and reclusive. It’s certainly the first one I’ve seen or heard here all winter. In general, Catbirds here seem to move at least a little further south, then reappear early each spring. But I really don’t know. Either way, it was fun to see and nice to know it’s there.

On a warm, sunny, spring-like morning, a profusion of tiny bluets bloomed among the stubbly, dry brown grass along the roadside, and a Brown Thrasher sang – the first one I’ve heard singing this year.

The shy bluets only showed up when I walked right by them, almost through them – invisible from further away, very common small wild flowers, each with four pale blue petals and a sunburst-yellow center, satiny and warm, all together like a filmy cloud floating over the rough winter ground.

It took me several minutes to find the Thrasher, screened by a tangle of water oak limbs and weedy shrubs. He was perched in an oak, but only about halfway up, not at the top, and after a minute or two, I realized that there were two Thrashers singing, back and forth, not far away from each other. Their songs both sounded a little slow and rusty, with longer than usual pauses between the phrases, and sort of casual and easy, not too competitive yet. But – along with Pine Warblers, Eastern Bluebirds, Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice and Northern Cardinals, all singing, too – it’s beginning to sound like spring.

It’s been a long, unusually cold winter here, and it’s far from over yet, but it looks like the week ahead will be mostly warm and sunny.

By noon today, the wind had become strong and gusty, swinging the bird feeders in our front yard back and forth, ringing the wind chimes, and rushing through the pines and dry leaves still clinging to some of the oaks. The warm air felt restless and strange. Turkey Vultures and Black Vultures soared, and a Red-tailed Hawk sailed low over the treetops and then up fast, riding the wind. Small birds seemed mostly to be staying in the shelter of shrubs, but Pine Siskins called zhreeeee from somewhere high in a mixed stand of pines and young oaks, American Goldfinch mewed, Yellow-rumped Warblers flung out check notes as they flew, Brown-headed Nuthatches squeaked, and a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker clung to the trunk of a pecan tree and tapped steadily.

The conkaree song of a very few Red-winged Blackbirds could be heard, and this morning there seemed to be fewer Robins around than there have been most days lately.

This morning we awoke to the glitter of sunshine on soft white snow. A light snowfall during the night left maybe an inch or two, at most, covering the ground and powdering the tops of bushes and lining the branches of bare-limbed trees. Trees in the woods looked especially pretty, encased in sparkling, icy snow.

It was a brief, bright frosting – by mid morning snow was dripping down from the trees, and by mid afternoon it was almost all gone. But before then, I went out for a walk, to enjoy the snow while it lasted. The feeders in the front yard were busy with small birds – lots of American Goldfinches and Pine Siskins – together they’re going through a lot of birdseed every day lately; helped by Downy Woodpeckers, Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, Chipping Sparrows, House Finches, a pair of Northern Cardinals, and a Carolina Wren or two. Pine Warblers were singing, and coming to the feeders now and then, too.

At least a hundred and probably more American Robins were scattered out on the ground and in the trees, scratching and rustling and calling out in startled squeaks. Mourning Doves, Dark-eyed Juncos and White-throated Sparrows fed more quietly underneath the feeders. Up in one corner of the yard, a Hermit Thrush scratched around with several Robins, looking thin and pale brown, almost insubstantial among the big, sturdy black and red-breasted birds – though with bold spots on its upper breast and a lively manner, the skinny Hermit was much more active than the solid Robins; it moved quickly, lightly across the ground in spurts, head up and alert.

A Goldfinch came to the birdbath for water, and seemed unbothered to find it frozen solid. It slipped out onto the ice, only a little unsteady, and leaned down with its head turned to one side to scoop water from the surface where some had already melted, splashing up a spray of drops each time it drank.

The most noticeable birds as I walked through the neighborhood, though, were Eastern Bluebirds – they seemed to have come into bloom everywhere. Three blue, blue males with rose-orange breasts perched in a small, bare-limbed tree in one yard as I walked past, stunning against a clear blue sky and white snow all around.

A little further on, a small mixed flock of Eastern Bluebirds and warm-yellow Pine Warblers foraged in open patches of brown grass, where the snow had already melted. And at several spots along the road, Bluebirds flew, flashing their colors. I don’t think there were more than usual, really, but the reflective brilliance of the snow and unusually dry, clear air lit everything with unusual clarity.

A Red-tailed Hawk, for instance, came sailing low overhead as I was watching a column of about a dozen Black Vultures soaring and circling upward. Its cream-white, shining shape made me catch my breath, partly because it came so suddenly into view, more because I could see it with such clear detail – the widespread wings, whitish breast and underside, streaked band across the belly, brown hood, and the darker brown of the back and top side of the wings, the dull red-orange of the tail, with the touch of white at the base.

Further along the way, I heard the squeaky calls of Brown-headed Nuthatch, and the jidit-jidit of Ruby Crowned Kinglet. Two quiet Northern Flickers flushed up from a yard into the trees. Red-bellied Woodpeckers called their spring-time quuurrrr. And I passed another gathering of Goldfinches and Siskins in some treetops, mewing and calling zhreeeeeeee. With a much louder, richer, deeper mew, a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker flew to the trunk of a pecan tree and immediately began working its holes. Its crimson throat and crown glistened.

Two Field Sparrows flitted out of privet bushes in the same spot where I saw one a few days ago, scratching in the leaves there with White-throated Sparrows and Eastern Towhees.

Near the top of a hill in one heavily wooded area, the luminous coppery leaves of many young beech trees showed up particularly well among the bare limbs of the oaks, tulip poplars and other hardwoods and rustled in a light breeze. The beeches there are mostly young, scattered around a couple of homes there and deeper into the woods, where the land slopes down toward a creek.  I don’t think I’d ever appreciated how many there were in this spot, and it looked like an abundance of riches to me, to have so many beech trees around.

In an eloquent column about beech trees in the Athens Banner-Herald only a couple of weeks ago (January 23), Holli Richey captured some of their partiular allure. “With snow still dotting the ground, and a light breeze in the air, I knew it was a perfect day to listen to the beech trees,” she wrote. “The American beech (Fagus grandifolia) is one of our most useful native trees. At the top of my list for its uses is the calming rustle the shivering, paper-thin, curled winter leaves make as the wind passes through the beech’s open and cascading branches.”

January ended with a Pine Warbler’s song.

Always one of the first signs of spring here, Pine Warblers usually start to sing in mid or even early January, and their lyrical trills are welcome, colorful music in the darkest days of winter. This year they seemed to wait a little later, maybe because the month has been particularly cold, with an unusual heavy snow in the early part that stayed for more than a week, and the rest often rainy, gray and chill. Or maybe it’s been my own dark and somber mood and not the weather. I really don’t know for sure. But I first heard one sing early in the morning on January 28, and – as usual – they’ve been singing every day since then, often in the pines just outside my office windows. Enough to lift the lowest winter spirits.

One morning in late January the breezy, rising zhreeeee! calls of Pine Siskins filled the trees in a wooded area of mixed evergreens and bare-limbed oaks and pecans. Among my favorite winter sounds, the Siskins’ calls blended together with the mewing of American Goldfinches, almost sounding like the voices of the trees themselves, swaying in a light, chilly northwest wind. The Siskins were difficult to see – small, grayish-brown streaked birds with a slender shape and small pointed bill, and a subtle touch of yellow in the wings – and their call, too, is like streaks, or several strings played at once, almost harsh in quality, but strangely and hauntingly musical, especially when several are calling together.

This was the first time I had heard or seen Pine Siskins in our neighborhood this winter, though they may have been around and I just hadn’t been out often enough to find them. They stayed around through the end of January, at least. We haven’t put up a finch feeder this year, so they haven’t been conspicuous around our house. These were in another part of the neighborhood, though not far away, and there seemed to be a good many in the trees, but the sun was directly behind them, so I could not see them well enough to count or even see detail – they were just dozens of gray little birds in the trees making this intriguing winter music, and I stood for several minutes, just listening.

The same day when I heard the Pine Siskins – January 27 – was a beautiful, sunny day. Chilly, with a light northwest wind, and a big, open, light blue sky, graced with high, sweeping white clouds – and lots of active birds. The Siskins were among several highlights of a long, late-morning walk, which also included a Field Sparrow, Brown Creeper, two Hermit Thrushes, two Brown-headed Nuthatches, and a colorful flock of several Pine Warblers feeding on crushed pecans in the road.

The front yard seemed quiet when I first stepped out the front door – only the whistle of Mourning Dove wings, the chickadee-dee-dee of a Carolina Chickadee, and a Brown Thrasher that flushed up and out of the bushes beside me and flew to the wax myrtles, where it walked around in the open, tall, handsome, bright. A Yellow-rumped Warbler flew from one of the feeders with a sharp, annoyed check! A Carolina Wren trilled, and a Downy Woodpecker rattled. A bright red male Northern Cardinal sat quietly on a branch near the feeders. Crows cawed and Blue Jays called in the distance.

Along the road, three Turkey Vultures floated just over the treetops and sailed up and away, and Eastern Bluebirds, House Finches, Tufted Titmice and Carolina Wrens sang. A Red-bellied Woodpecker rattled and chucked. Chipping Sparrows flew up like sparks from the grass and into the trees. An Eastern Phoebe called tsup repeatedly, and flew low across the road in front of me, moving from branch to branch. American Robins were scattered over yards and in trees just about everywhere – not in big flocks, but scattered out, foraging and squeaking as they flew or interacted with others.

A small flock of Red-winged Blackbirds flew over, and the high, thin calls of another small flock of Cedar Waxwings drifted down as they settled in several small, bare-limbed trees, their lemon-yellow breasts glowing in the sunlight. Two Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers mewed, and tapped steadily on the trunks of pecan trees.

It was in an area of privet bushes and other shrubs that the Field Sparrow unexpectedly appeared. It was foraging in grass below the shrubs with White-throated Sparrows and Eastern Towhees. It flew up and onto a branch – a small, roundish sparrow with a sturdy pink bill, and a gray and rufous-striped head and patterned face, a plain breast and pinkish legs. I almost didn’t believe my eyes, because I haven’t seen or heard a Field Sparrow here for a long time – not all last spring or summer, I think – and I’ve missed them, especially the bright, bouncing song that used to be so common. But there it was, quiet, but distinctive. It sat for only a few minutes before flying into other bushes and out of sight.

Brown Thrashers made their smacking calls from several places in the thickets. A couple of quiet Mockingbirds lurked in bushes.

On my way back toward home, two Northern Flickers flew up from a grassy yard into a tree as I got close, flashing white rump patches, and I heard the chatter of one Ruby-crowned Kinglet from some shrubs, the only one I heard all morning.

As I came to the top of a hill, in a stretch lined with pecan trees arching overhead on both sides of the road, dozens of small birds were foraging along the roadside and out in the road – feeding there on crushed pecans. A surprising number of these small birds were colorful yellow Pine Warblers. I counted at least twelve. This is the first year I can ever remember seeing so many of them at once – though maybe I’ve just overlooked them in the past, because species accounts mention that in the winter Pine Warblers from further north join resident Pine Warblers here in the south and sometimes move together in flocks of 100 or more. I have not seen such large flocks, but this winter have seen two or three dozen almost daily, usually foraging in grassy yards and along the roadside like this with Yellow-rumped Warblers, Eastern Bluebirds, Chipping Sparrows and House Finches. Though they join the other small birds, the Pine Warblers seem to stay more or less together.

Unlike the Bluebirds – whose flashy color always seems to catch the eye, especially on sunny days – the yellow of the Pine Warblers somehow doesn’t seem obvious, so when I take a closer look through binoculars at what appears to be a bunch of grayish little birds, the sudden burst of sunshine-yellow often comes as a nice surprise.

Further up the road, two Hermit Thrushes called chrup over and over again from a thicket of small trees and bushes near the roadside. One perched out in the open on a branch in a cedar, a beautiful view of its spotted breast and wide-eyed face.

As I turned into our driveway, a Mockingbird and a male Bluebird seemed to tangle briefly in a sharp buzzing exchange – each flying to a different tree – and I wondered what that was about. Several Dark-eyed Juncos flushed up from foraging on the ground, into the trees, and two Brown-headed Nuthatches shared one of the feeders with Chipping sparrows. As I was watching the Nuthatches, behind them on the trunk of a pine appeared one of the best surprises of the morning – a Brown Creeper. It crept quickly almost straight up the trunk, staying in view for several seconds, then finally spiraled around and out of sight, and I lost it, probably flown to a nearby tree.