Birding Notes

Early evening on the back deck, the weather was warm and sunny, but pleasant in the shade of the oaks. Chimney Swifts flew overhead, and Ruby-throated Hummingbirds made steady, zipping trips to the feeder hanging from the deck rail. The male comes much more often, and almost always hovers while sipping nectar, buzzing with energy, always watchful, always on guard. Sometimes he relaxes enough to perch on the crook above the feeder for a few seconds. The female comes less often, and seems less bold, more skittish, but also, paradoxically, more calm when she does decide to stay. She perches, wings still and quiet, on the feeder to sip.

The pik-a-tuk calls of Summer Tanagers traveled through trees on the edge of the yard – and then a pair flew together into the large pine that stands at the southeast corner of the yard, pausing there in full, beautiful view. They did not stay long, but long enough to see the rich rose-red of the male, and the dull-yellow and olive of the female. The male held nesting material in his bill.

From very far away, came the full, percussive call of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo, the cuk-cuk-cuk-cawwp-cawp-cawp call itself like a fading echo. This is the only time so far this season that I’ve heard a Yellow-billed Cuckoo’s call. But I am hopeful still that maybe one will return to our woods for the summer.

And then – another nice surprise in the same spot. While I was waiting and watching to see if the Gnatcatchers would come back again, I caught a glimpse of black-and-white stripes among the leaves, again very low, almost on the ground, though a little further back in the shadows of the edge of the woods. It disappeared, but I could see leaves rustling as it moved, and after a minute or two, a female Black-and-white Warbler emerged, still very low, creeping over leafy branches. Black-and-white striped all over, she looked only a little less crisp and bright than a male, just slightly faded, like yellowed pages; a prominent striped head, and white stripe over the eye, and a soft black pattern of spots showing under the tail when she turned up to search the underside of a branch. She moved quietly, not calling or making any sounds that I could hear. Then she paused, looked around – and flew across the road and high up into some tall pines.

Late in the afternoon on a very warm, sunny day, the only bird I heard when I first stepped outside was the soft coo of a Mourning Dove. As I walked through the neighborhood under a deep blue sky with big white cumulous clouds, four Chimney Swifts twittered as they swept over, a Blue Jay cried, a Northern Cardinal sang, Crows cawed in the distance. Birds were scattered here and there – the chatter of a Carolina Chickadee, the jubilee-jubilee-jubilee song of a Carolina Wren, the rattle of a Red-bellied Woodpecker. A Pine Warbler sang in the woods, Chipping Sparrows were dotted here and there, spaced out, singing their long, level trills from small trees and shrubs in grassy yards. An Eastern Bluebird flashed its startling color as it flew across the road and into the woods.

Almost everywhere in the neighborhood was generally pretty quiet, a typical late afternoon. But then, from sweet gum trees on the edge of the woods, next to a large grassy yard, came the wheezy spee-spee calls of a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher. Petite and delicate, a Gnatcatcher was moving through the bright green, star-shaped leaves of very low sweet gum branches that almost brushed the grass, like a dancer in its movements, so neat and crisp, silvery-gray and white, its long, slender tail upturned and switching – gathering the fluff from dandelions. As it moved, it paused to call spee! and was answered by a second Blue-gray Gnatcatcher hidden somewhere nearby in the sweet gum trees, also quite low.

The Gnatcatcher pulled up one tuft after another, until it had a bill full of dandelion fluff, then it flew back into the dense foliage of the sweet gum trees. So – I think maybe there’s a Gnatcatcher nest somewhere not far away, maybe lined with this soft, silky fluff. I waited and watched for a while, and could hear the Gnatcatchers continue to call, but did not see them again. A Brown Thrasher came out of the low foliage to forage in the grass, looking warm red-brown in the sun.

On a cool, crisp, sunny morning – after a cloudy day with some light rain yesterday – an American Redstart sang in a wooded area near the roadside. When I heard the song, I thought it was a Redstart, but because I don’t hear it often, the song is not familiar enough for me to be sure at first. It’s a high, tart series of notes, something like sweee-sweee-sweee-sweeer, but with other variations. Though it has a recognizable quality, the pattern of the notes is difficult to describe, and difficult for me to remember. It’s one of the birdsongs I seem to have to relearn, again and again.

I stopped, waited and watched – and saw a small, very active black bird with bright orange patches in the wings and tail, and on the sides. It moved through the low branches of oaks and sweet gums, flaring its wings and tail, flashing the colors, and pausing to lift its head, part its bill and sing now and then.

On a warm, cloudy morning, at the far north end of the old field, a Blue Grosbeak was singing from the top of a chinaberry tree. The big silver, conical beak gleamed, the slightly peaked head was deep blue, and in pauses between songs, the Grosbeak switched its long tail energetically. But its plumage showed a lot of brown all over, with patches and shadings of blue, so it looked like a sub-adult Blue Grosbeak – a male from last season that has not yet acquired its full mature plumage – dark, rich blue all over, with striking rust-brown wingbars.

I didn’t have the best view, though, and the Grosbeak flew after only a minute or two, so I’m not sure. Sunlight can do funny things to colors, and often a Blue Grosbeak looks more black or gray than blue from some angles. But – this one looked decidedly brown. It’s puzzling because last summer the only Blue Grosbeak singing in the field all season appeared to be a sub-adult, and I wonder if that’s going to be the case again this year.

It’s a small mystery, and I know I’ll never know the full story because I’ll only see the bird – if it stays around – once a day or so, at most. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll see a female, too, and on several occasions in past years I’ve enjoyed catching glimpses of interesting Blue Grosbeak behavior. But there’s so much more of its life that I’ll never see. In general, there’s a lot that is not known about the life and behavior of Blue Grosbeaks, and I think we’re lucky to have them here. It always has seemed to me a signature species of this old field in summer.

The species account in Birds of North America notes: “Although widespread throughout its breeding range, [the Blue Grosbeak] is generally scarce and virtually all aspects of its biology are poorly known, perhaps owing in part to its low numbers. . . . we still lack detailed information about Blue Grosbeak nesting ecology, courtship behavior, and song structure and learning, among other things.”

The account goes on to note: “Nesting in shrubs or tangles of vines along forest edge or roadsides, Blue Grosbeaks commonly produce two broods per year. Limited data suggest that it is quite heavily parasitized by the Brown-headed Cowbird.”*

Since I frequently see and hear Brown-headed Cowbirds in and around this old field, that seems a concern. More and more traffic on an already-busy highway just over the hill, and the replacement of fields, groves and wooded areas with subdivisions nearby have changed this habitat over the past decade or two, and each spring I watch and wonder if a Blue Grosbeak will return to nest here again.

So far the field itself remains large and wild, with a dense stand of full-grown pines as well as more open areas of thickets, vines and shrubs, and a power cut through the middle. So I’m hopeful it can remain good enough habitat for the Grosbeaks – as well as Indigo Bunting, White-eyed Vireo, Gray Catbird and several other species.

*Peter E. Lowther and James L. Ingold. 2011. Blue Grosbeak (Passerina caerulea), The Birds of North America Online (A. Poole, Ed.)

Early in the evening, about an hour before sunset, there seemed to be baby birds everywhere in the back yard, all of them insistently begging to be fed. Two juvenile Eastern Bluebirds sat close together on a high branch of an oak, well sheltered by foliage. Two young Downy Woodpeckers were more active, exploring the trunks of one tree after another, and also begging and being fed. I think there were some Chickadee juveniles around, too, but the most vocal babies were two tiny Brown-headed Nuthatch juveniles in a large pine at the corner of the back yard, with both parents, fluttering their wings, begging in a high, wheezy version of the nuthatch squeaky call, and being fed.

The evening was warm, cloudy and a little windy, with rumbles of thunder now and then, but no rain. Chimney Swifts chittered as they flew overhead. A Great Crested Flycatcher called Breet.

As the Yellow-throated Vireo was moving away through the woods, I noticed a quiet female Summer Tanager sitting on the branch of a tall pine not far from the window. She called a quiet pik-a-tuk, and a warm rose-red male Summer Tanager flew to a branch very near her, then, within seconds, he flew up and fluttered over the female briefly. It all happened so quickly that I’m not sure they were mating, but think they must have been. He flew away immediately, but she stayed in the pine, moving from one branch to another, not searching for food, just perching, stretching out low and looking around, and calling pik-a-tuk softly.

Early this morning, a Red-eyed Vireo, Pine Warbler and Great Crested Flycatcher welcomed a warm, gray, showery day with song. Although the rain never amounted to more than very light showers, the weather seemed to encourage birds to be active.

All afternoon as I worked, office windows open beside me, I could hear a succession of bird songs and calls in and around the back yard – a Scarlet Tanager’s CHICK-brrrr, the cooing of a Mourning Dove, the songs of Red-eyed Vireo, Eastern Phoebe, American Robin, Northern Cardinal, Eastern Bluebird, Carolina Wren, the twitter of a Ruby-throated Hummingbird coming to the feeder, the squeaky chatter of Brown-headed Nuthatches, the mews of American Goldfinches, the fussing of Tufted Titmice and Carolina Chickadees – even the nasal calls of a White-breasted Nuthatch, an uncommon visitor here, though more frequent in the past few months.

Best of all, late in the afternoon I heard the unmistakable three-eight phrase and burry, mellow song of a Yellow-throated Vireo, very nearby. Yellow-throated Vireos used to be fairly common here in the summer season, but seem to have become much less common, and this is the first one I’ve heard this season except for two or three occasions when I could hear one singing very far away. A Yellow-throated Vireo song is usually described as a series of two and three-syllable phrases. To me it sounds somewhat similar to a Red-eyed Vireo, but slower, lower, with longer pauses and a more sultry, deliberative quality. One of the phrases very often sounds like a clear “three-eight.”

This one sang from the pines, oaks and sweet gums at the southeast corner of our back yard, right outside my window. I was afraid that if I went outside it would fly, so I watched through the window screen and listened, and after three or four minutes could trace it moving through the foliage, though mostly it stayed screened by leaves. It sang with very long pauses between phrases, and seemed to give the three-eight phrase most often. Finally it came out into a mostly clear spot for just a few moments, showing its greenish head and back, deep yellow throat and white belly. I couldn’t really see the yellow “spectacles” around its eye well at all, but could see its bill opening as it leaned its head back and sang. It disappeared again into the sweet gum leaves and continued to make its way through the trees, now moving further away, and then flew.

This morning the front yard sounded livelier than usual, mostly with the chatter and activity of two juvenile Downy Woodpeckers and the female parent. When I first came outside, one of the juveniles clung to a hanging block of seeds with the parent. It seemed to be doing fine at feeding itself, pecking enthusiastically at the seeds. But every now and then it fluttered its wings and made wheezy begging sounds, and the parent fed it.

The other juvenile – maybe a little more adventurous – sat on the edge of the birdbath, leaning down to take sips of water, sitting back up and tilting its head back to swallow. Then it hopped into the water and took a quick but thorough splashing, fluttering bath – and then flew to the trunk of a tree beside the feeder, where it pecked on the trunk for a few minutes, exploring, before joining the parent and other juvenile on the feeder, and begging to be fed.

At the same time, the Carolina Chickadee parents continued to go in and out of the ceramic hanging nest in the pecan tree. The pik-a-tuk calls of a Summer Tanager moved through the edge of the woods.

By late morning, the day had become very warm again – with a sunny, blue sky and high white cirrus clouds. A Red-shouldered Hawk was soaring very high and calling. The Indigo Bunting sang again in the field, this time from the top of a chinaberry tree on the edge of the power cut.

Toward the end of a walk through the neighborhood, it felt good to stop for a few minutes in the shade of a wooded spot, where the road comes close to a creek. Here a Northern Parula sang its somnolent, buzzy, summery song, and an Acadian Flycatcher called a plosive wheet-sit! An Acadian Flycatcher has been calling for several days from way down along the creek somewhere, but until today it had always come from very far away, so distant it was more like a rumor. This one was close, and it sounded crisp and clear. Like the Indigo Bunting’s song in the field, and the Tanagers’ pi-tuks in the woods, an Acadian Flycatcher’s quick, sharp calls around a lowland, wooded creek in summer make it feel like things are the way they should be.

A small greenish-gray bird with a slightly crested gray head, white eye-ring and white wing bars, an Acadian Flycatcher usually isn’t hard to find, perching on low branches to call frequently and hunt, and it’s not particularly shy. But because the woods surrounded a neighbor’s house, I didn’t go looking this morning, and was content anyway, just to stand for a few minutes and listen.

In the gray light of early morning, about 45 minutes before sunrise, one of the most enthusiastic birdsongs outside my open window was a brightly repeated wheee-er. After a few minutes of listening, I realized that it was a Great Crested Flycatcher, but the song was quite different from its daytime whreep or burrrt – not guttural or burry, but with a lighter, more musical, ringing quality. After listening a little while longer, it became clear that what had at first sounded like a repeated “wheee-er” was actually something like WHEEE-eer; wheeee-UP. The difference between the two parts was subtle, not as greatly different as the typed words make it seem, but clearly two different variations or phrases.

I think this was the dawn song of the Great Crested Flycatcher, something I don’t remember having heard before. The species account in Birds of North America* includes a description of its dawn song that sounds very much like what I heard. A Great Crested Flycatcher is frequently around our house and yard, so it’s not surprising that it would be one of our early morning singers. The BNA account also describes a third part of the dawn song that is very low and difficult to hear, a kind of prrr or chrrr. I did not hear this part.

Although the dawn chorus has seemed rather subdued most of this spring season, with fewer singers than usual – especially fewer neotropical migrants – it’s still a beautiful time. Two Chipping Sparrows sang their short bursts of trills; Northern Cardinal, Carolina Wren, Eastern Phoebe, Eastern Bluebird, Pine Warbler, Tufted Titmouse, Northern Mockingbird and Brown Thrasher also sang. A Blue-gray Gnatcatcher called spee – though I didn’t hear it sing.

*Wesley E. Lanyon, 1997. Great Crested Flycatcher (Myiarchus crinitus), The Birds of North America Online (A. Poole, Ed.) Ithaca: Cornell Lab of Ornithology.