Birding Notes

Late this morning, on a warm, sunny day, I heard the sweet whistle of an Eastern Wood-Pewee, coming from a pecan tree surrounded by tall shrubs, along a fence in a neighbor’s yard. A small, plain gray flycatcher with pale wing-bars and a slightly crested head, it perched on a dead branch of the tree and flew up several times to catch an insect, then returned to the same branch. It called several times in its shortened song, a down-slurred wheee-ooo.

The species account in Birds of North America notes, “Although still considered common in most of its range, this species declined significantly on its breeding grounds over the last 25 years, perhaps in part because of heavy browsing of forests by white-tailed deer.”*

This could help to explain why Eastern Wood-Pewees, whose song used to be a familiar part of summers in our neighborhood, have not spent summers here in the past few years – and probably why some other bird species have become much less common or are completely absent, too. A large number of white-tailed deer in woods around the neighborhood keep much of the undergrowth cleared out and significantly change the habitat.

I usually hear the song of an Eastern Wood-Pewee now only in migration – or at least, once the breeding season is over and birds have started to move – and especially in the fall, when sometimes one will stay around for several days.

*John P. McCarty. Eastern Wood-Pewee (Contopus virens), The Birds of North America Online (A. Poole, Ed.) Ithaca: Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

This morning a big open blue sky marbled with high white clouds looked utterly empty as far as I could see, except for one soaring Black Vulture. Birds mostly were very quiet, just the chatter of Carolina Chickadees and Tufted Titmice, the nasal calls of a White-breasted Nuthatch, and now and then a song or burbled call of a Carolina Wren.

It’s the time of year when the old field is at its most colorful, wild and overgrown, especially this year after so much rain. It’s rough and thorny with grasses, weeds, vines and shrubs, and for some reason the kudzu has not spread much at all. Along the roadside, foxtails have appeared among tall, tough green grasses that almost smother out the low-growing purple stiff verbena and a few yellow dandelions.

One of my favorite spots is a ditch along the edge of the field, where morning glories spill up and out through the weeds in a profusion of white, deep-purple, blue and pink blooms. Twisting among them and even further out among the weeds are the tiny bright blooms of red morning glories. And further out in the power cut, the first few big white blooms of wild potato vines have opened.

Sleepy Orange and Cloudless Sulphur butterflies and one burning-orange Gulf Fritillary fluttered by – and I’m sure there were many other butterflies I missed as I walked by this morning.

A Gray Catbird flew out of a thicket and perched on a tall, sturdy red stem of pokeweed, where it sat for several minutes, eating purple poke berries. Slate-gray all over, with a neat black cap, a slender bird with a long tail and bright dark eyes, the Catbird looked momentarily relaxed, at home among the thickets and weeds, and yet, its shadowy body seemed to hum all over with restless energy.

Though very active and vocal, Gray Catbirds are also secretive and stay hidden in low shrubby vegetation most of the time. I’ve been hearing its raspy mews in the field since mid July, but this was one of the few times this summer I’ve seen it.

Our rainy summer has continued, with another round of heavy showers late yesterday, but this morning brought a break of clearing skies and big sweeps of soft blue with high, cottony clouds. Trees, shrubs, grass – all the landscape was drenched and saturated with rain, lush green, and the air felt warm and humid.

In the old field, a female Blue Grosbeak flew from weed to weed not far from the roadside, switching her long tail from side to side, and calling a metallic chink several times. In the warm sunlight, the large silver bill glinted, and the variations in her tawny color glowed. She looked much more colorful than many illustrations show – copper-brown all over, but darker in the wings, with chestnut wing bars, and darker feathers on her head erect in a slight crest, and other subtle variations all over. She looked radiant and vibrant – the highlight of the day.

Many other birds were active too. The flamboyant songs of Northern Mockingbirds and Brown Thrashers blended with the steady, summery trills of Chipping Sparrows, the soft, blurry notes of Eastern Bluebirds – and songs of Eastern Towhee, Tufted Titmouse, Eastern Phoebe and Carolina Wren. A Scarlet Tanager sang in its hoarse, brassy voice from a tree near our front yard, Great Crested Flycatchers called whreep or burrrt, and a White-eyed Vireo repeated its dry chick-a-perioo-chick in the field.

Late on a very warm, muggy, cloudy morning, a Gray Fox ran across the road not far ahead of me. It came from an area of privet thickets and thick undergrowth along the dead-end road just outside our subdivision, and ran across the road and into the field, where it quickly disappeared in the shrubs, weeds, grasses and trees.

The fox looked rather heavy and muscular to me, impressive in size – not as slender as I usually think a fox will be. Its fur was grizzled gray with red highlights, and it had a long bushy tail, a feline-fox face and large ears. My view of it was brief, but fairly close and vivid.

The first day of summer brought a break in the rain, with a sunny blue sky, huge white clouds and warm, humid weather. The day began with the whreeep of a Great Crested Flycatcher hunting from trees around the back yard. Ruby-throated Hummingbirds already were coming and going from the feeder as early as I looked outside.

Late in the morning when I went out for a walk, a Brown Thrasher flew to the top of a pecan tree and began to sing, and all along the way many other birds also were singing, maybe welcoming the sun. Most were our year-round residents – Northern Mockingbird, Eastern Bluebird, Northern Cardinal and Chipping Sparrow – whose sweet, level trills sounded especially bright and cheerful. Eastern Towhee, Carolina Wren, House Wren, Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Chickadee, Eastern Phoebe, House Finch – all were singing.

From the woods came the musical trill of a Pine Warbler. Brown-headed Nuthatches chattered in the pines. American Goldfinches flashed like tiny yellow lights as they flew over. Mourning Doves cooed. Red-bellied Woodpecker, Downy Woodpecker and even one Hairy Woodpecker called.  Three Chimney Swifts twittered as they swept overhead. As usual, there were plenty of active and vocal Blue Jays and American Crows – but today, no hawks, no vultures. Maybe I was just out at the wrong time to see them.

A pair of Blue-gray Gnatcatchers called a whispery spee-spee from a tangle of vines and privet on the edge of the woods. An Acadian Flycatcher gave a sharp pit-sah from down near the creek. A Summer Tanager and a Red-eyed Vireo sang in different parts of the woods, and a Scarlet Tanager sang from near the top of a large Red Oak, where I could just barely make out its fiery red and black plumage.

Long before I got to the old field that stretches along the highway, I began to hear the sweet-sweet, chew-chew, sweet-sweet chant of an Indigo Bunting. It’s not the first time I’ve heard one here this season, but it’s not been here every day, just now and then. Today it was singing from the top of a small tree on the edge of the power cut that runs through the field – a tiny, intensely blue spot of a bird, an exclamation point of brilliance on the first day of summer.

A White-eyed Vireo also sang in the field, from a hidden spot in the weedy thickets. Cicadas, grasshoppers and other insects whined and buzzed and chirped, but no butterflies. A dragonfly zipped over.

Like the Yellow-billed Cuckoo, almost all of our neotropical birds – birds that spend the summer here and winter in Mexico, Central or South America or the Caribbean – have seemed fewer and farther between than usual in our neighborhood this year. This may be, at least in part, because the month of June has been very gray and rainy so far, though I’m not sure that’s the only reason. All the trees and other vegetation are lush and green, and it’s hard to complain about rain when we’ve had so many hot, dry years. But it’s begun to seem like a very wet and soggy summer – and a summer with few birds.

Most of the usual summer species are here – I can find them – but they’re harder to find, not as common a part of a summer day. In past years, for instance, Summer Tanagers have been among our most familiar birds. Their lilting, Robin-like songs and the quiet pik-a-tuk calls of the pair are among summer’s most characteristic sounds. The rose-red male and yellow female haunt the trees around our back yard and in wooded areas throughout the neighborhood, hunting for insects. But this year, although I hear a Summer Tanager singing most days, it’s usually in the distance, and I only see one now and then around our own yard – and even less often in other parts of the neighborhood.

This morning the exotic, percussive call of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo came from somewhere among the dense green leaves of a tall pecan tree in a neighbor’s yard – ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-cow-cowp-cowp-cowp. Though I didn’t manage to see the elegant bird among the leaves in the treetop, the call alone was bright and welcome enough. I had just about given up on finding even one Yellow-billed Cuckoo in the woods around our neighborhood this summer, so it’s great just to know at least one is here.

Moving quietly through the canopy, where it prefers to stay, the sleek, slender bird – with velvet-brown back and head, creamy white breast and belly, long, down-curved bill, yellow on the bottom, and long, dramatically-spotted black and white tail – deliberately makes its way through the branches, eating caterpillars and other insects, now and then giving its clear, expressive call.

In a gray and dripping dawn, after a night of heavy rain, a Barred Owl called from somewhere not far away, maybe in a branch of the white oaks right outside our bedroom windows. It called several times, a single hoooo with just the slightest –ow at the end of each, and with a rich, low, purring quality that I could feel as much as hear, a purring growl.

A beautiful way to begin the day.

Under a clear, bright, sunny sky, dusty-white Queen Anne’s lace has begun to bloom along the roadsides, joining dandelions, yellow asters, camphorweed, daisies, and deep-purple stiff verbena. In the old field, prickly purple thistles are opening their blooms, and hundreds of sprawling wild pink roses spread across the rough grasses and weeds.

Still later in the day, in early afternoon, the rich, burry three-eight song of a Yellow-throated Vireo moved through the woods beyond the back yard, another woodland bird that I was happy to hear, even though it stayed too well hidden in the trees to see. A small songbird with a colorful and striking appearance – olive-green back and head, white wingbars, bright yellow throat and breast, and bold yellow spectacles around the eyes – a Yellow-throated Vireo has become less common around our neighborhood in recent years.

Though it prefers habitat around the edges of forests, a Yellow-throated Vireo also needs a fairly large forested area in order to breed successfully, so it may be that changes in habitat here and in the surrounding area have made these woods less attractive for them.

By this time of day, the dusky clouds of early morning were long gone, leaving a deep-blue sky and gleaming white cumulous clouds, and a bright, very warm sun. A juvenile Eastern Bluebird, spotted and wide-eyed, perched, pecked and preened a little, on a low, dead stub of a branch in a large pine. A Northern Cardinal, House Wren, Tufted Titmouse, House Finch, Chipping Sparrow and Carolina Wren sang, Carolina Chickadees chattered, Blue Jays cried, and Ruby-throated Hummingbirds twittered as they came to the feeder on the deck.

And so this is how the month of May has ended – with warm, sunny, humid weather; blue sky and dreamy, drifting, towering white clouds; and with many active birds  – though still remarkably few of our usual neotropical summer birds.