Birding Notes

Early this morning – a gray, cloudy, cool day – a clear, ringing song rose from down along the creek that runs through the woods. The soaring notes announced the approach of spring with a flourish like a fanfare, as they do every year about this time. A Louisiana Waterthrush has returned. Today is the first time I’ve heard one here this spring. Its arrival marks the beginning of the spring migration season, so its song always seems to me like a herald of spring – three or four clear, strong whistled notes, followed by a tumble of other jumbled phrases.

A Louisiana Waterthrush is one of the first migrant songbirds to return here from its winter home further south, arriving when the trees are still bare, the fields still brown, and often – though not this year – when the weather still feels like winter. A small, plump wood warbler, it has a dark-brown back, white breast streaked with brown, and a bright white stripe over the eye. Louisiana Waterthrush hunt along wooded streams for insects, earthworms, crustaceans and other small prey, and nest along the banks of the stream, sometimes among the exposed roots of trees.

Because of their secluded habitat, they’re not widely familiar birds, not often seen, but they are birds with personality, lots of fun to watch – and if they’re around, they’re not too hard to find. Walking along the edge of a creek on long pink legs, they bob their tails up and down almost constantly, searching crevices and hollows in the sides of the stream, walking over rocks, on small sandbars, over a fallen log or along a branch.

While Louisiana Waterthrush can be found throughout a large part of the eastern U.S., they are not abundant in any part of their range. Because they prefer clear streams and wooded habitat, their presence is considered a good indicator of the health of a stream – but that preference also puts them at risk as development spreads and stream water gets clouded from silt and other pollution. So each year it’s a good sign to hear that song again, encouraging to know they’ve returned.

On a chilly, bright, sunny morning with a clear blue sky, a Red-tailed Hawk swooped suddenly over my head as I was walking along the road, coming from behind me at lower than treetop level then flying upward, rising above the trees. It began to climb, making a large circle, turning so that its dull red-orange tail caught the sun, and rising quickly. As I watched it, a Red-shouldered Hawk appeared and flew directly toward the Red-tailed Hawk, diving toward it sharply then veering away.

Both hawks made big, loose circles and climbed slowly, and the Red-shouldered Hawk dived toward the Red-tailed Hawk two or three more times. I could not tell if any actual contact was made, but it was diving at the Red-tailed Hawk just as Crows often do. The size between the two hawks was quite noticeable in this encounter, the Red-tailed Hawk considerably larger. The Red-shouldered Hawk looked more compact, its banded tail and bold coloring vivid against the blue sky.

All this time both hawks were quiet. The Red-tailed Hawk sailed away out of sight, with the Red-shouldered Hawk still in pursuit, and only then did I hear its kee-yer calls. Several minutes later, in the same area, a Red-shouldered Hawk was soaring alone and calling a loud kee-yer, kee-yer, very high, so that it was barely more than a sliver in the sky.

I don’t know for sure, but think the Red-shouldered Hawk probably was attacking the Red-tailed Hawk because it had come into its territory and maybe too close to its nest. This happened in the same low, wooded area around some creeks where I’ve seen a pair of Red-shouldered Hawks often the past few weeks. In previous years, this has been more the territory of Red-shouldered Hawks, but over the past few winter months, a pair of Red-tailed Hawks has also been spending a lot of time here, and that’s relatively new.

This afternoon I heard a rapid drumming in the edge of the woods, and found a male Hairy Woodpecker drumming in what was left of a broken-off, standing dead pine. It was a mostly cloudy day, sweetly cooler after rainstorms moved through last night, washing away the very warm, humid weather of the past few days.

Erect posture, a long, rather stout, pointed bill, and intense, focused behavior are characteristics that can identify a Hairy Woodpecker – distinguishing it from the smaller Downy Woodpecker with very similar black and white plumage, white breast, black and white striped face, and a small patch of red on the back of the head of a male. Except for the drumming, this one was quiet. Often a Hairy Woodpecker is very vocal, calling out frequent, emphatic peenk! notes as it works.

This one drummed several times as I watched, on a bare section of the dead pine near the top, with pauses of 30 seconds or more in between. The drumming sounded fast and not deep, with an almost light quality – but maybe that has more to do with the tree than the woodpecker, I don’t know. In the pauses between drumming he preened, combing and digging his long pointed bill through his breast feathers and turning around to preen his back and wings. He scratched the left side of his head with one foot, then the right side of his head with the other foot. Then he drummed again.

After several minutes of this, he flew to a thin branch sticking out from a nearby white oak, and immediately began to knock vigorously on one spot on the branch. It was impressive to watch because he knocked hard, several times in a row, working steadily, using almost his whole body in the movement. Repeatedly, he leaned his head and neck far back and hurled it forward to strike the thin branch with the bill. Whack, whack, whack, whack. He paused a couple of times, but not often. I could see the hole in the bark and the pale splintered wood emerge – and then he seemed to find something, plunging the long bill into the cavity and pulling something out. Beetle? Grub? Whatever it was, he plunged the bill in three or four more times and seemed to be eating something. Then he flew to another oak nearby, wiped his bill on a branch, and knocked a few times there, but did not stay long before flying further away, into the woods.

Brown Thrashers began to sing, as usual, in mid February here. I heard the first one February 14 and others soon after that. For a couple of weeks, they all sat not in the tops of trees, but down a couple of feet, screened by the branches, and they sang rather softly, somewhat muted, as if warming up. But yesterday and today several have been up in the very tops of the trees, singing freely, each in a favorite perch overlooking the territory he claims.

One Brown Thrasher sings from the top of a tall, dying Leyland cypress not far from our house; another down the road in the top of a pine in a thicket; one in a tulip poplar near the summit of a wooded hill; another in a scrubby stand of water oaks along the roadside; one sings from the top of a pecan tree on the edge of an open yard; and another usually sings from a chinaberry tree almost smothered in privet and dead kudzu vines in the old field.

Although they’re year-round residents here, Brown Thrashers stay mostly hidden and quiet through the winter months, venturing out to feed on the ground, and diving into thickets or bushes at the slightest disturbance. But come late winter and early spring, they’re up and out in the tops of the tallest trees.

The song of a Brown Thrasher is not as virtuosic a performance as that of a Mockingbird, not so fluid and or delivered with such flair, though both mimic the songs of other birds. While a Mockingbird sings with its body almost as much as with its voice – it acts – it may flick its wings, raise and lower its tail, move around, look around, and even fly from spot to spot while still singing – a Brown Thrasher perches rather stiffly in one spot in a treetop, tail held down and head up, wings quiet, and sings from right there – a series of paired musical phrases that include its own musical notes as well as the mimicked songs of other birds. It’s known for having one of the largest repertoires of any songbird, sometimes more than 1,000 different song types.

A Brown Thrasher is a particularly handsome bird – large, slender, a rich red-brown back, wings and long tail, and boldly dark-streaked breast. Its bill is long and down-curved, and its eye a brilliant yellow. Overall, its appearance can be arrogant and fierce – though its behavior is often very shy and nervous. If I seem to be saying that it’s not as impressive as a Mockingbird, that’s not true. It’s just that they’re different. The flashy, sassy, extroverted Mockingbird – and the more reserved, deliberate and introverted Thrasher. Each has its place in the landscape, and if anything, it’s the Thrasher I find more intriguing, with more than a hint of mystery, complexity and paradox in its ways.

This morning the rich, smooth, colorful song of a Northern Cardinal began the day at first light, sounding as brilliantly red as it looks. The Eastern Towhee, an Eastern Phoebe and a Dark-eyed Junco also sang.

It was another warm, humid, gray day, the sky by mid-morning crowded with low and high clouds of many shapes and shades. At times the sun burned through a gauzy hole, but never quite broke through.

Birds seemed rather quiet all through the neighborhood, not silent, but few in number and scattered, with the usual suspects singing and calling from the woods or feeding in scattered flocks in yards. Two Black Vultures, a Turkey Vulture and a Red-tailed Hawk soared in a strong southwest wind. A Mourning Dove cooed.

Two Fish Crows called unh-unh to each other as they flew over – unusual visitors here among the many American Crows that are always around. Their short, nasal calls are higher in pitch than the caw of an American Crow.

Many American Robins are scattered almost everywhere through the neighborhood, and there are still a large number of Cedar Waxwings, too – not all flocking together but flying in flocks of two or dozen or so, or perched in chinaberry trees, privet, hollies and oaks. I stopped to admire several Cedar Waxwings perched in a large bare-limbed pecan tree across the road from the field. They all faced in the direction of the sun, even though it was covered in clouds, lemon-yellow bellies glowing like candles, faces exquisitely painted, crests all windblown and fluffy; tail-tips glistening yellow.  An Eastern Towhee, Carolina Wren and Carolina Chickadee sang in the field, and a few White-throated Sparrows called.

By mid-morning the day remained more cloudy than not. The air felt warm and very humid. The yard had fallen quiet, with no birds singing nearby, though the songs and calls of several could be heard in the woods and down the street. As I walked up the driveway, a White-throated Sparrow flew out of a hedge of wax myrtles into the crape myrtle bush, followed by a second White-throated Sparrow – then a third – and more – until there were six White-throated Sparrows all sitting in the branches of the big crape myrtle, all looking bright and chipper, with cinnamon back streaked in black, gray breast and crisp white throat, white and black striped face and a touch of gold over the bill.

It was an especially nice way to begin a morning walk – and the month – because it has seemed to me that we don’t have as many White-throated Sparrows this winter as usual here. There are always a few around in the usual places, but not in the numbers of previous years.

At first light this morning, on the first day of March, an Eastern Towhee sang through the sleepy sounds of softly falling rain. Drink-TEEE, Drink-TEEE, over and over again, a strong, enthusiastic morning song.

By the time the sun was supposed to rise, the rain had stopped, and I stood on the front porch. It looked as if we had gotten quite a lot of rain, the ground soggy, trees still dripping, puddles standing in the yard and driveway. Thick clouds still covered most of the sky, but were beginning to break up, and within a few minutes some blue began to show through as the sun came up behind me, and behind our house, and light and color began to spread.

The Towhee still held center stage, singing vigorously from the top of a crape myrtle at the head of the driveway. A bedraggled-looking Chipping Sparrow perched on top of the hanging feeder, hunched over it, steadily eating seeds. And many other birds sang in the background – Eastern Phoebe, Northern Cardinal, Carolina Wren, Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Chickadee, House Finch, Eastern Bluebird, Pine Warbler. A quiet Northern Mockingbird sat on a low branch of a pecan tree.

Then I heard a new song, a gentle, jingling trill – not a Pine Warbler or a Chipping Sparrow, though similar to both. This trill was shorter, with a lighter, more airy quality. After a minute or two, I realized it was a Dark-eyed Junco, perched in the same crape myrtle with the Towhee, but down much lower, among a tangle of bare brown branches. Its song sounded like a longer version of one of the Junco’s calls, usually made when it’s startled into flight, a softly-ringing trill, a little like a muted, old-fashioned telephone.

For a few minutes, the bright black, red-orange and white Towhee sang its full-throated Drink-TEEE from the top of the bush, and the small, plump, dark-gray Junco sang its light and airy trill from below. Then the Towhee flew away and began singing from a neighbor’s yard, and the Junco stayed.

One White-throated Sparrow and a pair of Northern Cardinals foraged under the feeders. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet made its way quietly through bushes on the edge of the woods. A flock of Cedar Waxwings flew over. A few American Robins made their nervous-sounding calls, and one Robin sang. Crows cawed, and three stopped by in the treetops in the yard but did not stay long. A Red-bellied Woodpecker called quuuurrrr. Eight Canada Geese flew over, honking, heading south.

The last day of February was cloudy and warm all day, uncomfortably warm and humid by late in the afternoon, with a strong southwest wind blowing low grim clouds steadily across the sky.

Two Black Vultures soared high, and a Turkey Vulture lower, and as I was watching them fly in the wind, two small hawks came into view – Sharp-shinned Hawks. At first they both were fairly low, and they took several minutes to circle and climb until they were quite high.

They were perfect Sharp-shinned Hawks, neat and compact in shape, with long narrow tail, distinctly square at the tip; the head relatively small, the wings broad and short and slightly arcing forward. The flight of both hawks was classic – several light, quick flaps followed by a glide, then flapping and gliding again. Sharp-shinned Hawks are a joy to watch. Their flight is clean and crisp and sleek – giving an impression of intensity and focus. As they rose higher, they soared more and flapped less, and when gliding, the wings and tail were held so still, so perfect – they almost looked like toy gliders.

Much later in the day, as the last light of February faded away, spring peepers sang from down around the creek in a cloudy, windy, warm twilight.

A little further up the road, a good many birds were scattered out in another yard – more Robins, Chipping Sparrows, Bluebirds, Yellow-rumped Warblers, a couple of Starlings – and one very fine male Rusty Blackbird with yellow eyes and picture-perfect black plumage with a rippled shadow of rusty-brown across the shoulders and back.

A Northern Flicker called kleer! from the woods. A Pine Warbler trilled its song. Two Brown-headed Nuthatches chattered squeakily in some pines. A flock of Cedar Waxwings flew over, scattering their high, thin calls like rain. Several Yellow-rumped Warblers flew from limb to limb in the trees, calling check as they flew. One handsome male Yellow-bellied Sapsucker worked quietly on the trunk of a pecan tree.

Clouds had moved in and begun to cover most of the sky as I came to the summit of a hill, with wooded yards on both sides and a power cut beyond the back yards on one side of the road. A fluctuating nasal call came from the edge of the woods not far away, a long, repeated ahn-ahn-ahn-ahn-ahn-ahn. I knew it was a White-breasted Nuthatch, but it wasn’t until I looked it up later that I realized it wasn’t a call really, but the song of a White-breasted Nuthatch.

Along the roadside, bluets, purple henbit and yellow dandelions were all in bloom, and in one lush dandelion flower, a honeybee combed through the petals. Because honeybees face such serious threats, their populations shrinking and in peril, I’ve begun to feel it as a small sign of hope whenever I see one, and it’s strange – something that used to be so common, but we can no longer take for granted.

Late in the morning on another warm, balmy spring-like day, the front yard had fallen quiet and was almost empty when I headed out for a walk. I could hear only the peter-peter song of a Tufted Titmouse, the cawing of distant Crows, and an Eastern Phoebe singing from across the street. As I walked up the driveway and down the road under an open, soft-blue sky, swept with rumpled sheets of high white clouds, a Cardinal, a Bluebird and a House Finch sang; a Red-bellied Woodpecker called its spring-time quurrrr; and a scattered gathering of Robins, Dark-eyed Juncos and Red-winged Blackbirds fed in the grass of one large yard.

But all in all, the day seemed rather quiet, and my thoughts had begun to drift off to other things as I walked through a wooded section with trees on both sides of the road, when suddenly I heard – and felt – a close, explosive kee-yer! kee-yer! A Red-shouldered Hawk burst into view right above me, at no more than treetop level – breathtakingly colorful and clear. The sky behind it was blue with sunlight shining through the plumage so that almost every feather seemed to be visible, and all the markings were vividly clear – the ruddy red breast and well-defined reddish upper parts of the wings, the checkered black and white in the outer wings, and the black and white barring of the fanned-out tail. It circled quite low a couple of times, and I think I almost held my breath the whole time. It sailed away toward the north, staying just above the treetops. I could see it in the distance and still heard its calls as I walked on.

To see such a spectacular hawk so dramatically is to be reminded of the amazing beauty and wildness that still lives here around us, not somewhere distant and pristine, but right here, in these second-growth woods around our homes and towns. A Red-shouldered Hawk is a woodland hawk, dependent on the continued existence of large enough forested areas in which it can nest and hunt. Similar to the more familiar Red-tailed Hawk, but more colorful and less often seen, a Red-shouldered Hawk may soar on outspread wings in open skies and is one of the most vocal of hawks, especially at this time of the year, when pairs are mating and nesting – or weave swiftly and quietly through the trunks of trees in a woodland. It usually hunts from a perch in a tree in the woods, well camouflaged despite its size.