Birding Notes

The song of an Eastern Phoebe began the day at sunrise. An Eastern Towhee called chur-weee, Northern Cardinals peeped, a Red-bellied Woodpecker chuck-chucked, and before too long a Northern Mockingbird began to sing from the top of a young red maple on the edge of our yard, its thick green leaves just beginning to show patches of dark rose-red. Out back, two Ruby-throated Hummingbirds had already begun frequent visits to the feeder, at this time of day not wasting too much time in battles. They seemed almost to take turns – though it wasn’t too much later in the morning before that changed.

The Phoebe’s early song began a day that seemed defined by Phoebes, an abundance of them, all through the neighborhood. I’m not sure there are more of them than usual – we have a good number of Phoebes here year-round. It may be just that they – like Carolina Wrens – have become more vocal and more active lately, while other birds have become more quiet. Some of the Phoebes sang; others called tsup as they flew from spot to spot in the trees, or hunted from low branches, flying down to the ground and back up; and some came together in agitated encounters, erupting in chatter calls.

When I stepped out onto the front porch around ten, a Phoebe perched in the Savannah holly just to the right of the porch. It seemed undisturbed by my arrival and stayed quietly sitting on a branch of the scrawny tree, which has very few leaves because it’s in a spot where it doesn’t get enough sunlight, but it’s loaded with clusters of orange berries. The Phoebe looked soft and pretty, a study in tones of ash-gray, with darker head, pale breast and a faint wash of yellow on the belly.

The shadowy appearance and sibilant songs and calls of the Phoebes – and also their tartly bobbing tails and spirited behavior – reflect the season’s mood, subdued but brisk. The muted colors; pearl-gray, layered clouds; the rustling dry leaves, a hint of wood-smoke in the air, and the crisp, sharp scent of fruit.

Late in the morning, in a sunny, deep blue, cloudless sky, one Turkey Vulture circled low, slowly rising. Several Black Vultures soared and circled much higher, and among them, an Accipiter soared on broad, outspread wings, its long narrow tail looking dark, with a distinct white area glowing between the base of the tail and the body – a Cooper’s Hawk, I think, though it was really too high to tell for sure.

Late on a sunny, quiet morning the green leaves of a small box elder tree rustled with movement, and the sleek face and shape of a Red-eyed Vireo came into view, lit by a ray of sunlight. For three or four minutes, I watched as it moved through the box elder and then into a nearby dogwood, still thick with dusty-red leaves, going in and out of shadow and sunlight, gleaning insects. It was graceful in appearance, with a long, lean figure, smooth, gray-green back and wings, cream-white breast and belly, dark-gray crown edged in black, a white stripe over the eye, and a thin dark line through the eye. The view was not clear enough to see the red of the eye, but I watched as long as I could see the bird, maybe the last Red-eyed Vireo I’ll see until next spring, since they’re all on their way further south, most already gone, leaving for the winter.

The morning was cool, crisp and calm, with a deep blue sky, only a few wispy clouds low in the east, and a few leaves showering down from pecan and sweet gum trees now and then. At first it seemed as if very few birds at all were around, but they were there, unobtrusive and quiet, and I’m sure I missed many more than I saw.

After a few minutes the vireo flew out of the dogwood, across the road and into more trees on the edge of the woods – where a plump Pine Warbler quietly moved through the foliage, also gleaning insects. The warm yellow of its head, face and breast caught the light; its wings looked drab dark gray with blurry white wing bars. It plucked a big fat caterpillar from a leaf and swallowed it in three or four neat, quick snaps.

Further up the hill, in another wooded area, another Pine Warbler sang a loose, musical trill. A Northern Flicker called a beckoning flicka-flicka from a bare branch in the top of a pecan tree. In the grassy yard below, several Eastern Bluebirds, Chipping Sparrows, House Finches, Mourning Doves and at least one more Northern Flicker searched for food in the grass, almost invisible except for their movements. An Eastern Phoebe, faintly yellow on the belly and sides, hunted from low branches on the edge of a driveway.

A Brown Thrasher flushed out from below a row of shrubs and up to the limb of a pecan tree not far above me. There it sat very still, surrounded in leaves and shadows, watching with round amber eye, a picture-perfect view of its red-brown plumage, dark-streaked breast, long tail, and fierce long, curved bill.

A bright orange and black-veined butterfly fluttered past and up toward the treetops, and into the clear blue sky – the first Monarch butterfly I’ve seen this season.

It was a good day for butterflies – within an hour I saw several more Monarchs, mostly in wooded areas and around yards. Over and around the old field flew clear-yellow Cloudless Sulphurs, Sleepy Orange, and a burning orange Gulf Fritillary flashing the big silver spots under its wings – its brilliance never fails to make me catch my breath. They flew over a rough field, power cut and roadside all in brown and fading colors. Spilling up and out from the roadside ditch, the purple, pale pink, blue, magenta and white morning glories remain radiant, as well as hundreds of tiny deep-red morning glories, winding over tangled grasses, foxtails, kudzu, goldenrod; a very few white, yellow and pale purple asters; pokeweed, withering blackberry vines and other weeds. Bitterweed raised its drooping, dark-yellow blooms along the roadside with deep-purple, low-growing stiff verbena and a scattering of sunny dandelions.

A Buckeye Butterfly fluttered from plant to plant along the roadside – soft, deep brown with bands of orange and white, and scalloped white near the wing edges, and several large dark eye spots. It paused often with wings spread, long enough for me to focus through binoculars for a few moments – then flew up high. As I tried to follow it with binoculars – a hopeless thing – I saw what appeared to be a small, compact raptor, soaring very high, silvery and ethereal. It was so far away I wouldn’t have seen it at all without binoculars, so it was just by chance, and even with them it was impossible to identify – broad wings, short tail, but hawk-like, not a vulture. But much too far away to do any more than guess, and wonder.

October began with the song of a Mockingbird in a soft, steady rain, even in the dark, before the first hint of light began to appear. An easy rain continued to fall as a sleepy, misty, gray morning light became the day. An Eastern Towhee called chur-WHEE, a Tufted Titmouse sang peter-peter, a Carolina Chickadee fussed chick-a-dee-dee-dee. Crows cawed in the distance. Northern Cardinals peeped in the bushes. A Downy Woodpecker’s whinny sounded like a silvery echo of the rain.

A Carolina Wren began to sing, a full, rich cheer-a-LEEE, cheer-a-LEEE, cheer-a-LEEE, followed by the long trill of another Carolina Wren. Across the street, an Eastern Phoebe whistled. An Eastern Bluebird called a few blurry notes. A Red-bellied Woodpecker rattled. A couple of Blue Jays flew into the treetops in the front yard, with strident cries.

Crickets chirped, and the rain kept falling, quietly dripping, painting the background and filling the pauses between the few bird calls and songs. In the back yard, at least two Ruby-throated Hummingbirds – females or juveniles – took turns at the feeder, or seemed to, not battling or chasing, just perching there one at a time, looking a bit bedraggled, with drooping wings and head-feathers ruffled by the rain.

Not late, but well after dark this evening, as we sat in a room with windows open behind us, a Barred Owl called several times, a female, I think (but am not sure), from the purring vibrato at the end of each call. The WHOO-aawwwwww calls sounded very close, though it’s hard to tell. The owl fell silent, and we thought maybe it had gone. Crickets and other night insects sang, and the night air drifting in felt cool and damp. After several minutes, the Barred Owl called again, still nearby, maybe on the edge of the woods, a rich, low WHOOOO-aawwwwww, ending in a long, soft-growling purr.

Then it called again, but from further away – and further – until we heard no more.

Several times over the past three or four weeks, I’ve heard the call of a Barred Owl, sometimes early in the evening like this, more often in the very early hours of the morning, around three or four am. It’s always been the shorter WHOO-awww call, not the longer Who-cooks-for-you. And each time, I could only hear one owl calling, and no response from another – but there might be another too far away for me to hear.

Ruby-throated Hummingbirds were dueling around the feeder – one of them zipping so close to my head I could feel the whirring buzz of its wings – and a Tufted Titmice was hovering under the deck umbrella, cleaning out the spider webs, when a small, quickly moving bird arrived in the leaves of the white oak next to the deck. A plain, greenish-gray on the back and wings, pale underneath, with a hint of a yellow throat, a white eye-stripe and very faint wing-bars – it was a female Tennessee Warbler. She moved mostly over the smaller branches, gleaning insects or spiders from the leaves. Some Carolina Chickadees and more Tufted Titmice were foraging in the oak leaves, too, but I couldn’t find any other warblers or migrants.

Early this afternoon on the back deck, the weather almost felt like a return to summer. It was very warm, though pleasant in the shade of the oaks. High, loose white clouds crowded in a soft blue sky. A Red-shouldered Hawk cried kee-yer, soaring somewhere in the east. Light warm breezes brought down showers of acorns, with loud, startling pops – under the table’s umbrella was the safest place to sit. Ruby-throated Hummingbirds – all females or juveniles now – came and went steadily. Two Red-bellied Woodpeckers called back and forth, churk-churk, as they flew from tree to tree and worked on the trunks. Squirrels rustled in leaves. Grasshoppers and crickets sang. Some Crows cawed in the distance.

We were supposed to be on our way to Boston today, but complications from a strep infection kept me at home. So I’m not good for much but sitting out here and taking it easy today – and feeling pretty depressed. But it’s hard to feel too sorry for myself – if one has to be sick, a sunny deck on a beautiful, warm afternoon is a pretty luxurious way to endure it.

A Northern Cardinal sings, and a Carolina Wren – then another, answering the song. The first few leaves have begun to fall. Last week sometime, while walking, I noticed a thick sprinkling of sweet gum leaves on the ground and the road and roadside, drab-yellow stars splotched with brown.

A tiny green anole with a very long, thin dark tail paused on the deck rail to look around with its miniature dinosaur head. A Mockingbird sang from somewhere in the front yard. A Blue Jay cried. Then an Eastern Phoebe began to sing. A Downy Woodpecker in the oaks called a sharp, high peenk; a male with a bright red patch on the back of its head, going quickly over the branches, in and out of sunlight in the white-oak leaves. A White-breasted Nuthatch was not far away in the woods. Its nasal awnk-awnk calls moved through the trees, roughly following the course of the creek. More acorns fell.

A Pileated Woodpecker’s traveling cuk-cuk-cuk call also moved through the woods, even further away. Abruptly, a quiet Brown-headed Nuthatch flew in for a few upside-down sips from the feeder moat, then flew away with one of its softly murmured calls. Its visit seemed a special sight, even though a pair of Brown-headed Nuthatches are frequent visitors to drink from the moat. And then puh-weeee – in trees to the southeast, not far away, an Eastern Wood-Pewee’s call was repeated for several minutes, somewhere screened by trees, out of sight.

A small Blue-tailed Skink (a young Broadheaded Skink), crossed the deck, slithering more slowly than usual and even pausing out in the open, soaking up some sun along the way.

Late this morning on a beautiful warm, sunny day, a small sunny bird flew up from a grassy spot along the roadside into a pecan tree. I was facing into the sun and couldn’t see it well at first, but it stayed around that area, and I gradually got close enough to see it well – a western Palm Warbler.

Small and delicate in shape, it moved around in a quick, light way, frequently wagging its tail and showing a bright yellow color under the tail. It looked more gray than brown on the back and head, though the sunlight may have made it seem so, and I could see no chestnut cap at all. Its sides were yellow, with light streaks. It flew from the branch down to the grass, foraged there, and returned to a tree several times. It seemed to be the only warbler among several Eastern Bluebirds, a couple of Chipping Sparrows, an Eastern Wood-Pewee hunting quietly, and a Northern Flicker near the top of a tree in a nearby brushy thicket. There may have been other warblers around, but though I stayed for a while watching, I could find no more.

This is an area of our neighborhood where the road is lined with pecan trees and lots of shrubs, and where I’ve often found Palm Warblers in previous years, during migration, but this is the first and only one so far this season here. I’m sure I’m just missing some, not out often enough or not observant or persistent enough – but I also think it’s likely that for some reason there are just fewer of them – and of almost all neotropical migrants – moving through our neighborhood this year. So, it was particularly nice to find this one and enjoy watching it for a while.

Late in the morning along a stretch of road with woods on both sides, a Red-spotted Purple butterfly fluttered on the edge of the roadside. Its colors looked fresh and bright, pristine, with black wings that shimmered a subtle bronze on the upper parts, and large patches of iridescent blue on lower back of the wings. A rim of very thin white edged the wings. It fluttered low to the ground and then lit, so I was able to watch it closely for several seconds. It held its wings mostly outspread as it moved around on the ground, only now and then folding them up briefly, to show several large, irregular, brick-red spots, and a row of smaller, red-orange spots that lined the edge.

The body and head were black, marked with white; the long, thin antennae were clubbed on the ends. It probed the ground with a long proboscis, and also touched the ground with both antennae. The ground in this spot was hard red clay, mixed with lots of small granite stones, very hard, rough ground, with only low, poor-looking, drab-green weeds creeping fiercely over the clay. The spot looked almost barren and as if there could not possibly be anything of substance there, but there must have been something of interest, because the butterfly stayed for quite a while, five minutes at least. Once it paused to curl the proboscis up, and held it there for a few seconds. Then it curled it out and began to move and probe the ground again. And finally, after a few more minutes, it flew away.

Looking it up later, I learned that while the caterpillars of Red-spotted Purples feed on the leaves of trees and shrubs, such wild cherry, poplar, willow, birch and oaks, the adult butterflies may feed on sap flows, rotting fruit, carrion, dung, and occasionally the nectar of tiny flowers, including spiraea, privet and viburnum.

On one of the last days of summer, an Eastern Wood-Pewee’s drowsy puh-weee began a cool, clear, beautiful morning, after a day of heavy rain two days ago, slow clearing yesterday, and welcome, cooler weather moving in. Most other bird songs and calls – if there were many – were drowned out by the cawing of several American Crows as the sun came up – then the day-day fussing of Tufted Titmice, the chatter of Carolina Chickadees, the song of a Carolina Wren and the peeping of Northern Cardinals – the usual suspects. Big soft dusky morning clouds crowded a pale blue sky with a warming sun. Pine Warblers sang. Red-bellied Woodpeckers rattled, Downy Woodpeckers tapped on trunks, an Eastern Phoebe called tsup as it hunted from the branch of a holly tree.

But the bird of the morning – our bird of late summer – has been the Eastern Wood-Pewee. Its dreamy puh-weee fall song could be heard in several different places in the neighborhood, and colored the day – as it has for much of September, as the small, neat gray flycatchers with white wingbars and slightly crested heads, move through on their fall migration, heading South, but lingering here for a while. Their languid, sensual whistled puh-weee reminds me of the days when they used to be here all summer long, singing their full pee-a-wee; whee-ooo. So even these shorter, fall songs evoke the best parts of the summer, and can bring back memories of lazy, shady afternoons; hot blue skies with orange cloud-castles far away; the taste of a fresh tomato from the garden, the smell of fresh-cut grass, the drowsy drone of bees and wasps, and the scent of summer roses.

The first Wood-Pewee sang this morning in a tree in our own yard. Another sang and hunted from the bare branches in the top of a pecan tree down the street – and then I realized there were two Wood-Pewees there, both calling and hunting from the same high spot. They seemed to be contesting that particular desirable perch, at least for a few minutes. Then one flew away, and the other flew after it.  Another Wood-Pewee sang from trees around the pond, and another from an area of mixed woods and open grass.

Several Northern Mockingbirds also sang, and there seems to be a more relaxed and sweeter sound to their songs right now – or maybe it’s in the ear of the listener. My mood today. Eastern Towhees called chur-wheee; Eastern Bluebirds flashed their colors, sweeping in and out of trees, down to the grass and back up; three Chipping Sparrows with brown-streaked back, gray breast and bright reddish crown flushed up from the grass along the roadside, into the limb of a pecan tree.

In the old field, morning glories still spill out gloriously over and among the tall grass, goldenrod, ragweed, asters, camphorweed, kudzu, foxtails, pokeweed, and myriad other weeds of all kinds – the morning glories now even more colorful, with big open blooms of white, pale blue, pink, magenta, and deep purple, and the separate, tiny bright red ones, too. A White-eyed Vireo was singing again, a Gray Catbird mewed, two or three Brown Thrashers called a harsh tchack repeatedly. And a Pine Warbler sang from the dense, tall stand of pines at the south end of the field.

As I headed back toward home, I heard the cries of a soaring Red-shouldered Hawk, and paused to look up to try to find it. The last few morning clouds were melting away, leaving filmy veils of white and mostly open blue. I couldn’t find the hawk, but saw one Chimney Swift, flying very high, and apparently alone, though others may have been around. It’s the only Chimney Swift I’ve seen in a very long time, and I don’t know if I’ve just not been listening and looking closely enough – that’s possible – but it seems to me they’ve been scarce around here in the later part of the summer.

On a warm, gray, humid morning, low clouds covered the sky, and water still dripped from the trees, after a long, steady rain for much of the night. All the trees and shrubs and grass looked drenched, and birds were relatively quiet, but an Eastern Wood-Pewee sang, a White-breasted Nuthatch called its nasal awnk, and Brown-headed Nuthatches chattered brightly.

In the old field the morning glories looked a little drenched and drooping, along with all the other weeds and grasses. A Gray Catbird gave a raspy mew. I was looking for the Catbird in a mass of privet, when I caught just a glimpse of a small, delicate bird that was almost certainly a warbler. I could see it moving around, but it moved very quickly and I could not quite get a look at its head or face. Even after watching for as long as it seemed to be there, all I could really see was a flash of pure yellow on its throat and breast – no streaks – and gray on the back – and a good clear view of the underside of the tail, which was very white, tipped with a broad band of black. Because of that view of the tail, I’m pretty sure it was a female Magnolia Warbler.

I think this is one of the few times I’ve identified a warbler by the underside of its tail – though I’ve often used this as additional information to help confirm one. And in this case, I could be wrong, and probably would not count it as certain unless someone else had seen it, too. But the tail was clear and distinctive, and it was just kind of fun to recognize a bird like this, with such a glimpse.