Birding Notes

On a warm sunny morning, a female Scarlet Tanager sat deep in the middle of a large dogwood tree, all but hidden among the drooping, smoky-red leaves, placidly eating one red berry after another. I only saw her because the movement of a Northern Mockingbird in the same dogwood drew my attention to the spot. But then, I could see her fairly well for several minutes, and watched as she ate berries, not moving from that choice position in the tree. She was deep, dull olive-yellow all over, with wings slightly darker, and a stout, pointed bill. A thin, faint ring around the dark eye gave her a wide-eyed, watchful look.

Later in the day, early afternoon, a Black-throated Green Warbler among the leaves of white oaks in the back yard was much harder to see. Never still for a moment, it took longer to be sure about – a small bird, moving quickly, gleaning insects from the leaves. Watching it was like putting together the pieces of a puzzle – a solid black throat that spread down in a bib; a very white belly, bold black-streaked sides, and flashes of a bright yellow face with olive markings.

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.