Birding Notes

This morning at first light, well before sunrise, I heard the quiet but sharp CHICK-brrr call of a Scarlet Tanager in the branches of the white oak trees right outside our bedroom windows. The call was followed by the Scarlet Tanager’s song, and for several minutes I lay in bed, listening to it sing, so close, though screened from view somewhere among the oak leaves.

It’s not a pretty or very musical song. It’s a flat, hoarse series usually of six or seven phrases that sound to me as if the notes are being flung out with some effort. But it also sounds joyous and exuberant, and because I know the singer is a drop-dead gorgeous scarlet bird with jet-black wings it’s a song I love to hear, and it’s always good to know one has returned from its tropical winter home for another season here.

Late this morning, in a sky already a hot, hazy blue, two Cooper’s Hawks flew from one side of our road to the other, well above treetop height. One was noticeably smaller than the other, and this confused me for a moment, before realizing it must be a pair. I know a Cooper’s Hawk female is larger than a male, but I had never before seen a pair together. I wasn’t close enough to see the reddish breast or details of the plumage, but the shape of both hawks was distinctive, with large head, broad wings and long narrow tail with bands of dark and light. The rounded white tip of the tail was visible.

They flew together, in a captivating way quite different from their usual flight. It almost looked like lazy or sensual flying – rather slow, deep wingbeats, followed by a long, easy glide. They made a couple of looping half circles, not flying in a direct line as if headed toward a destination, but just flying around. When gliding, the tails were held long and narrow, the wings outstretched, and they sailed and banked and turned. The smaller bird seemed to follow the larger, almost to mirror its moves, and to stay fairly close behind it. Too soon, they drifted away toward the south, over the treetops and out of sight.

Only a couple of days ago, on Sunday, I had seen a Cooper’s Hawk sitting among the fresh new green leaves of oak trees in a different part of the neighborhood, but not too far away. I had stopped to check out the area where Broad-winged Hawks nested last year – I’m hoping they might return this year, but have not seen or heard one yet. The Cooper’s Hawk flew in and perched in the oaks, facing toward me, with the head turning to show the profile – giving me an unusually close and clear view, a perfect picture. That time I could see very well the shadowy, powder-gray shoulders and head, reddish bars on the breast, fierce eye, hooked bill, and long, rounded, banded tail, all lit by leaf-filtered sunlight. It sat there for several seconds, maybe a minute or two, then turned and flew a short distance away, into another tree where it was hidden.

By mid-afternoon the weather was very hot and sunny. I was working inside when a Ruby-throated Hummingbird purred up to the window beside me and hung there just long enough to get my attention, then zipped away. I had already seen one a couple of days ago checking out the spot on the back deck where the feeder usually hangs, and not finding it there, and I think they’ve probably been around for several days. But we’ve been traveling and busy – and, and – I just hadn’t gotten around to it.

So – feeling more than a little guilty, I got out the feeder, cleaned it well, filled it with nectar and hung it outside. I didn’t see a hummingbird come the rest of the day, but wasn’t constantly watching, and I’m sure it won’t be long.

Very late in the morning, near noon – an unseasonably hot, sunny day with a burning blue sky – a Prairie Warbler sang among the thickets of the old field just outside our neighborhood. Its husky, rising tzoo-tzoo-tzoo-tzoo-tzoo-tsee sounded like the piping of a fairy, hidden somewhere in the densest part of the weeds. It’s a subtle and elusive song, quiet and not showy, but it’s one of the loveliest and most expressive bird songs, capturing perfectly the spirit of the scratchy, scrappy, hopeful habitat in which it lives.

A Prairie Warbler is a small yellow bird with bright black streaks on its sides and less obvious rusty-orange streaks on its back. The crown and back are an olive shade, while the throat, breast and belly glow bright yellow. The face is yellow, with olive and almost black markings around the eye, and a dark streak through the eye.

It’s an active, colorful bird, fun to watch, known for often wagging or bobbing its tail. But – I didn’t see even a glimpse of this one singing in the field, though I listened and looked for several minutes. The singer stayed hidden somewhere deep in the shrubs and vines.

At home in scrubby old fields and pastures, abandoned orchards, and the edges of rough young, second-growth woods, a Prairie Warbler is a good example of the abundance of wildlife that can flourish in this kind of habitat – heavily used and abused land that doesn’t get much respect. But this is land in the early stages of succession and recovery, and many wildlife species like the Prairie Warbler depend on it.

Since about 1970, numbers of Prairie Warblers have declined, and it is considered a species of concern, largely because of habitat loss. Around our own neighborhood, ten years ago Prairie Warblers could be found during the breeding season in a large, nearby overgrown area of abandoned field and orchards, along with Field Sparrows, Blue Grosbeaks and Indigo Buntings. When a new subdivision replaced the weeds, shrubs, cedars and small pines, the Prairie Warblers and Field Sparrows disappeared, and for the past several years I’ve only heard or seen them passing through in migration. Indigo Buntings and Blue Grosbeaks have become less and less common, too.

As this Prairie Warbler sang in the remaining undeveloped land that still runs along a ridge over a busy highway, a Brown Thrasher also was singing from a perch in a scrawny, vine-choked chinaberry tree. A White-eyed Vireo, Northern Mockingbird and Eastern Towhee sang, and a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher called spee-spee, all just barely audible over the sound of constant traffic not far away.

On a warm, sunny, breezy, colorful spring morning, a songbird was moving around in the small yellow-green leaves and catkins of water oaks in our front yard. I’d been watching for warblers, vireos and other neotropical migrants and had not heard or seen many yet, far fewer than usual, it has seemed. This one was high overhead and frustratingly hard to see among the new foliage, but it looked familiar. The leaves shifted and rustled in gusts of wind, and the bird was quiet, not singing or making any sound I could hear. But gradually I could see that it was sleek and slender, with a gray-green back, dark cap, and cream-white belly, a distinctive white stripe over the eye and dark streak through the eye – a Red-eyed Vireo. It’s the first one of the season here around our yard, and it’s somewhat unusual to see one before hearing its song.

Though one of the most common songbirds in eastern forests and woodlands, a Red-eyed Vireo is known for being more often heard than seen. Inconspicuous in the treetops, it moves through the branches, searching for caterpillars and other insects, and usually staying screened among the leaves – though it sings almost constantly all day long during the spring and summer, a series of phrases and pauses, often described as something like, Here I am; where are you; over here; up in the tree, repeated over and over for hours. It’s a simple, rather pretty song, though to some it can become monotonous.

April has begun with picture-perfect spring weather, lots of new green foliage and flowering trees and shrubs, and birdsong, especially in the mornings. At times, the fresh green leaves in the trees seem full of invisible little birds – mostly American Goldfinch, a few Pine Siskins still around, and singing Yellow-rumped Warblers. Together these can make the treetops seem to shimmer with songs and chatter.

Chipping Sparrows trill from more open perches. A Louisiana Waterthrush continues to sing enthusiastically around the creek, and a Black-and-white Warbler sings its weesa-weesa-weesa in a patch of trees and privet thicket down the street.

And many other birds are singing – Brown Thrasher, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, Northern Mockingbird, White-throated Sparrow, Carolina Wren, Northern Cardinal, Eastern Phoebe, American Robin, Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Chickadee, Eastern Towhee, House Finch, and occasionally an Eastern Bluebird or a Pine Warbler, though they both seem rather quiet lately.

Meanwhile, Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers, Hermit Thrush and Golden-crowned Kinglets seem to have drifted away, headed north for the season. I haven’t seen a Sapsucker or a Hermit Thrush since the end of March, and no longer hear the light, sharp calls of the Golden-crowned Kinglets along the wooded stretch where they almost always could be found during the winter.

March has come to an end with a full week of cool, rainy weather, several thunderstorms and long periods of heavy rain. The days have been gray, wet and moody – but it’s really good spring weather here – what I think of as a green rain, because you can almost see the green emerging all around, like a watercolor painting.

I also didn’t mind the weather because it made it more appealing to stay curled up inside with a book while getting over a bad cold, and this morning brought yet another cool, deeply cloudy day, with a steady mist of rain.

Lots of birds sang right through the rain all week, and this morning, the first one I heard as I stepped out the door was a Brown Thrasher, followed by the quick little song of a Ruby-crowned Kinglet, then the irrepressible cheery-cheery-cheery-cheery of a Carolina Wren and the elegant, liquid song of a Northern Cardinal. A Louisiana Waterthrush continued to sing all along the creek. Three or four Chipping Sparrows spun their light, thin, lingering trills.

Dogwoods have come into lacey white bloom all through the woods, like white mist, a touch of kindness to these woods that look so ravaged with dead and dying pines and lots of fallen, broken trunks and branches on the ground. It’s been a rough winter – following a rough two or three years of pine beetle damage. Now sweet gums, water oaks, vines and other plants are leafing out and turning green, along with the dogwoods, so it’s beginning to look a little less sad and bedraggled.

A pair of Red-bellied Woodpeckers seems happy enough with one tall, ragged dead pine just inside the woods. They go back and forth from a hole near its broken-off top frequently, so we think they may be nesting there.

A Pileated Woodpecker trumpeted from somewhere in the distance. A Tufted Titmouse sang peter-peter. A Red-bellied Woodpecker gave its lush quuurrrr call.

Cedar Waxwings perched in the still-bare limbs of pecan trees around the front yard, little blobs of crested-gray against a misty gray sky, at least three dozen of them, probably more. Their high, thin calls sounded so shrill and piercing they almost hurt the ears, an unpleasant sound, insistent and sustained, like a high, insect-like whine that seemed unusual. Maybe it’s because there were so many of them calling at once, and all in one place, not flying and passing quickly by.

A Mourning Dove cooed. A couple of Blue Jays creaked out jay-jay! And the slow, sweet, plaintive Come-a-way with me of a White-throated Sparrow rose like a curl of mist from a dense bank of shrubs, the song that seems most in tune with the bittersweet mood of the day, and the season.

A male Eastern Bluebird – and a Carolina Chickadee – both suddenly burst across the yard, both looking as if they had just emerged from the bluebird house, though that’s unlikely. Maybe one just happened to be in the vicinity. I didn’t see for sure. But I wonder what’s happening there, and who is in possession, if either.

Then a Hermit Thrush flew up to a branch with a chrup that I heard before I saw its olive-brown back and rusty-cinnamon tail. It stood with its back to me, looking over its shoulder with a wide eye and then flew down to the ground and somewhere out of sight.

Later – almost noon – the day was still gray and misting rain, and I was working in my office when I heard the emphatic spee-spee-spee! of a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher just outside the windows, the first of the season here around our yard and woods.

A calm, cool, crisp, exquisite spring morning, with a cloudless blue sky and winter-bare trees in a hesitant haze of palest green, like a mist. Water oaks are leafing out in pale tiny leaves; sweet gums, further along, shimmer with fresh foliage, and dogwoods hover greenish-white with blooms almost ready to open. And all these trees around our yard, and a few remaining pines, too, were filled with sparkling, quivering, delicate music – the songs of Yellow-rumped Warblers. All winter long, all they’ve expressed is dry, gray comments of check! And now, suddenly, they bloom into floral, silvery songs.

Northern Cardinal, Carolina Wren, Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Chickadee, Chipping Sparrow, Brown Thrasher, Louisiana Waterthrush, and Ruby-crowned Kinglet also sang – and a Black-and-white Warbler sang weesa-weesa-weesa. A couple of Mourning Doves and three Dark-eyed Juncos searched for seeds under the feeders in the front yard. A Yellow-bellied Sapsucker flew to the trunk of a pecan tree. A pair of Downy Woodpeckers tapped on branches and worked on one of the feeders. A Red-bellied Woodpecker called quurrrr.

But the real gift of the morning was the bright, cheery, bouncing song of a Field Sparrow, a series of clear whistled notes followed by several falling notes that are usually described as a trill, but sound to me like the tap-tap-tap-tapping of a ping-pong ball. The Field Sparrow perched in the limbs of a young red maple tree, among new young red leaves, a very small, plain, ordinary-looking, brown-streaked sparrow with a soft rusty cap, a gray and rusty face and thin white eye-ring, and a small pink bill and pink legs.

A common bird of old fields, pastures and clearings, the Field Sparrow used to be a bird I heard and saw often. It’s an old and familiar friend. But in recent years, I have found them less and less often, so when I hear or see one now, I notice it more. While still considered widespread in eastern North America, populations of Field Sparrows are known to be declining, probably because of loss of the brushy, weedy habitat they need. They like weeds and open fields – and fade away when subdivisions, lawns and street lights replace the open, untended spaces.

I don’t know why this one was here, and doubt it will stay, but it was a pleasure to hear and see it passing through.

On a very warm, sunny day with clouds beginning to gather, a female Northern Parula flew into a thicket right along the roadside, and almost at eye level. It almost startled me, it was so close and so vivid – a small, stubby bird with a short tail, and a clear, glowing lemon-yellow throat and chest, very greenish back, blue-gray head, and what at first appeared to be a white eye-ring and white wing bars. The eye-ring was actually white arcs over and under the eye. This female showed no sign of the blurry, rusty-coral band across the chest that would quickly identify a male, and that some females also show more faintly. It’s another first of the season bird for me, and I have not yet heard the male’s buzzy, trilled song.

A Northern Parula is a small wood warbler that winters in Mexico, Central America and the Caribbean, and returns to eastern North America to nest in forested areas, usually along streams or wetlands. I’ve been pleasantly surprised to have them nesting here in our woods for several years now – it’s really more a woodland than a forest here, a very fragmented woodland, but the creeks and young hardwood trees seem to be okay with them. Their colorful, and yet exotically dusky appearance and sultry song always remind me of Spanish moss and deep southern woods in the Lowcountry– though they’re not uncommon even much further north of here.

Yesterday morning a Louisiana Waterthrush sang from along the creek in the woods, the first time this season I’ve heard its song – right on time, the herald of spring. Three clear, ringing, whistles, followed by a tumble of notes like creek water falling over rocks.

And this morning, our first Black-and-white Warbler of the season sang its high, thin weesa-weesa-weesa in the still bare limbs of the white oaks right outside our bedroom windows. The small, slender warbler, crisply striped in black and white, crept along the branches, searching one side and another, and stopping frequently to raise its head, show a snow-white throat and sing.

In the same tree, two Golden-crowned Kinglets whispered their wintery ti-ti-ti, ti-ti-ti, and an Eastern Phoebe flew to a branch and bobbed its tail.

A pair of Eastern Phoebes have built a nest on top of a gutter pipe over the garage, the same spot where Phoebes nested two years ago, though not last spring.

Both days have been warm and sunny. A Tiger Swallowtail butterfly, fresh yellow and black, fluttered low around some shrubs. Several other, smaller butterflies I didn’t know – some orange, some yellow – flew here and there, over grass and weedy flowers.

Back at home from a few days on the coast, we arrived at night, right after a good rain, so this morning the world looked fresh with touches of green and right on the brink of Spring. Many birds were singing – Carolina Wren, Northern Cardinal, Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Chickadee, Eastern Phoebe, Brown Thrasher, American Robin – and the calls of Downy Woodpecker and Red-bellied Woodpecker, even the long rattle of a Hairy Woodpecker from not far away in the woods. Several American Goldfinches are still coming to the feeders, and beginning to light up with lemon-yellow color. There were the zhreeee calls of at least a few Pine Siskins still around in the treetops. And the chrup of a Hermit Thrush that I heard – though I couldn’t see it, it was somewhere near. Two Canada Geese honked as they fly over.

And a new note added to the morning chorus – the light, high, lingering trill of Chipping Sparrows. Not just one, but at least three or four were singing from different places around the yard – one perched in a low branch of a red maple tree dense with young dark-red leaves. Their songs at this time of year, especially in the early hours of the morning, seem to me to have a fresh, delicate quality that is less common as the season goes on. Before we left, Pine Warblers were singing everywhere, but now, I only heard one or two singing later in the morning, while the trills of Chipping Sparrows were everywhere.

Then another new song – the quick start and rapid, exuberant burst of notes from somewhere in a tangled privet thicket – a Ruby-crowned Kinglet.

Two dozen or more Cedar Waxwings perched in the still-bare limbs of pecan trees and came to the birdbath to bathe. A female Yellow-bellied Sapsucker stayed for a long time checking holes in the pecan trees in the front yard before a second Sapsucker, this one a male, flew in and chased her away. He stayed for a while, then – or maybe she came back. I lost track. Both are so well camouflaged against the bark of the trees. Robins squeaked and chucked. An Eastern Bluebird sang from somewhere, not too near, and I did not see one going in or coming out of the bluebird box.