Birding Notes

On a cold and blustery, but brilliantly sunny morning on Kiawah Island, the tide was coming in, the beach still wide and open, with only a few other walkers in sight. A few Laughing Gulls, Ring-billed Gulls and Herring Gulls flew over, one by one, and others stood along the edge of the surf, widely scattered. Brown Pelicans sailed low over the water further out. One Forster’s Tern flew over the waves, quite low and close, so silvery-white it looked translucent, as if it were made of light. With slender wings and deeply-forked tail, a black mask and black bill at this time of year, in flight a Forster’s Tern is animated, graceful, and always fun to watch. This one was flying into the wind, hovering over the waves for seconds at a time.

This was the first day of a four-day visit to Kiawah Island during which I spent most of every day watching birds – a real luxury of time – on the beach, around ponds and some in woods and marshes. It was the perfect break and change of scene, completely different from the woods and fields of home. Here, it’s a world of light – and sun and sea and sand and marsh, and an abundance of birds – herons, egrets, eagles, osprey, pelicans, ducks, shorebirds, songbirds. The possibilities seem endless. There’s an openness and clarity that’s different, and being here even for a short few days does wonders to clear the mind of clutter.

At first I saw almost no birds along the beach, but then they began to appear – or I began to see them. The beach was so open and big it seemed they could almost disappear. Sanderlings scurried here and there along the edge of the waves, the most familiar little white sandpipers with gray backs, black legs, and straight black bills, so quick and energetic and bright they seem to sparkle. With them were Dunlins, a study in contrast – a more drab, brownish-gray color with pale, brownish-gray “bibs,” they didn’t run around so much, but clustered together with heads down, probing industriously in the sand with long, dark, drooping bills and shoulders that look slightly hunched.

Several Willets walked along the edge of the surf, one by one; larger, gray sandpipers on long legs, with long straight bills, they look so plain and quiet and nondescript, with no dramatic markings and unassuming behavior, until they’re startled into flight – flashing brilliant white and black stripes in the wings, and whistling a high, sharp klee-ee!

A flock of Red Knots flew in with a rush, low over the water, and settled on the sand at the shallow edge of the waves, bustling right to work, probing the sand. Maybe a hundred of them – a relatively small flock – they mostly stayed together in a tight group to feed, though a few scattered out more widely. Slightly larger and stockier than the Dunlins and Sanderlings, with short, thicker legs and relatively short, straight bill, they seemed at first to have few distinguishing features – just sort of grayish backs, pale bellies, and mottled breasts on which I could see no hint of red. They seemed still to be in gray winter plumage. Their heads stayed down most of the time, very busily probing into the sand like the Dunlins, intensely focused on feeding.

Then a bicyclist came along and passed them, and they burst into flight – and became breathtakingly beautiful. They fly so closely together, sweeping up and out and catching the sunlight on their breasts, which then showed a flush of warm rose, all of them together in the sunlight, like a sunset in flight. They flew up and out and circled back almost immediately to the same spot they had just left.

I watched them from a few yards away, trying to be careful not to disturb them. Populations of Red Knots have declined dramatically in the past two or three decades and there is serious concern for their future. Thousands of Red Knots stop here on Kiawah in the course of their extremely long northward migration in the spring, from Tierra del Fuego in South America to the Arctic. The food they find here and in other coastal stops along the way is vital to their survival. It’s believed that loss of adequate food sources during their migration may be responsible for their decline.

On the first day of spring the ringing song of a Louisiana Waterthrush rose from down in the woods, along one of the creeks in our neighborhood. Its clear, shining song always seems to me like an anthem, a flourish of notes announcing that spring is near – though usually it comes closer to the middle of March, a week or two before the Equinox. This year I had not heard its song until today.

Two other songbirds that have usually returned before now, and that I think of as heralds of spring – Black-and-white Warbler and Blue-headed Vireo – I haven’t yet heard or seen. Maybe soon.

When I first stepped out the front door – into a cool, crisp, beautiful spring morning – the first bird I saw was one of our winter residents – a gorgeous Yellow-bellied Sapsucker. It flew into a water oak right in front of me and paused in profile on the trunk, gleaming with a crimson throat and crown and a flush of yellow on the belly, dramatic black and white stripes on the face, and a wide white stripe down each dark wing.

Though few spring migrants have shown up yet, more and more birds seem to be singing each day – Pine Warbler, Chipping Sparrow, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, Eastern Towhee, Eastern Bluebird, American Robin, Northern Cardinal, Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Chickadee, Carolina Wren, and Brown Thrasher. Red-bellied Woodpeckers call their soft, musical quuurrr, Downy Woodpeckers whinny, and the juvenile Red-headed Woodpecker was in its usual area today, giving its rolling, churry call. It looks very bright and boldly colored now, with red head, black back and wings, white belly and broad white wing panels – only a few traces of its juvenile plumage still are showing.

On a warm, sunny afternoon with soft blue sky and veils of chalk-white clouds, a Chipping Sparrow sang its long, level trill from somewhere among the white blooms of a Bradford pear tree in a neighbor’s yard – the first Chipping Sparrow song I’ve heard this spring.

Much later in the afternoon, about an hour before sunset, another Chipping Sparrow sang from a pine tree in our own back yard. This one sat where I could see it well – the smooth gray breast, dark-brown, streaked wings, white eye-stripe and black streak through the eye, and bright red-brown crown. An American Robin flew into one of the white oaks and began to sing, too, a more musical, cheery song, and it stayed and sang a kind of serenade for several minutes. A Belted Kingfisher rattled as it flew over, heading toward the creek, and about a dozen honking Canada Geese passed by.

Not far inside the woods on the edge of the yard, a Red-shouldered Hawk sat quietly on a low limb of an oak. Its colors blended in so well with the leaf-brown floor of the woods and the dark trunks of the trees, I’d been outside for several minutes before I even noticed it was there. It sat with its back to me, surrounded by trees, but in a spot where it was clearly visible. Its smooth, velvet-brown head looked down toward the ground and in the direction of a large brushpile. In the late afternoon light, it looked as if the hawk had soaked up the warmth and color of the sun, and glowed in earth tones of brown and red-orange, with the contrasting black and white bands of the tail and black-and-white checkered wings.

While it faced away from me, it turned its head around and seemed to look directly at me several times. Then it shifted position so that it sat in profile, showing more of the reddish barred breast. Most of the time, its head was turned down toward the ground, watching for small animal prey – the brushpile is probably a pretty good spot for it to hunt.

After several minutes, it spread its wings and flew, low and suddenly, through the trees and further into the woods.

March has begun with classic, constantly changing March weather – windy, cloudy and cool one day, sunny and warm the next – and now today it’s chilly again, with strong winds and big gray and white clouds, and sun that comes and goes, as a cold front moves through.

Carpets of purple henbit have begun to appear in fields and pastures, and tiny bluets speckle yards and roadsides with petals the color of the sky. Many Brown Thrashers now are sitting in the tops of trees and singing. A pair of Eastern Bluebirds hunt from low branches in the trees around our front yard, and now and then one of them sits on top of the bluebird box possessively. Northern Cardinal, Carolina Wren, Pine Warbler, Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Chickadee and House Finch sing. A small flock of Cedar Waxwings flew over once, late this morning, against the low gray clouds – a strangely unusual sight, because I haven’t seen them often this winter.

From the edge of some shrubs tangled with dead brown vines, came a small, explosive burst of twittered song, fast and furious in tone, and a tiny Ruby-crowned Kinglet, with its red crest raised, chased another Ruby-crowned Kinglet through the bushes. The encounter was quickly over in a blur of gray wings, the whistled song almost snapping with intensity, as the kinglet being chased flew away. The other one remained on a branch in front of me for maybe a minute, as if to catch its breath, a bit ruffled but victorious, at least for the moment – a very small bird with gray-green head, white eye-ring, crisp white wing bars, and a ruby crown still fluffed up in an indignant feathered peak. Then it moved away, deeper into the thicket, chattering its stuttered jidit-jidit call.

On a warm, sunny, spring-like morning, Pine Warbler, Northern Cardinal, Carolina Wren, Eastern Phoebe, Eastern Bluebird, Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Chickadee, House Finch and at least one Brown Thrasher all were singing. The Pine Warblers, especially, are trilling their songs almost everywhere in the neighborhood. Two Red-shouldered Hawks called kee-yer from somewhere behind the tree line in the woods, out of sight.

Under a clear, deep-blue sky, yellow daffodils bloomed in yards and even along the roadside. An orange butterfly flew by, fluttering up and away toward the woods. Three Eastern Phoebes perched in a sunny spot on the edge of a large, sprawling thicket, flying out to catch insects in the sun-warm air.

A Golden-crowned Kinglet called its high, whispery ti-ti-ti from treetops along the side of the road. The facial stripes of black and white, and the sliver of gold in its crown flashed brightly enough to see, even on such a tiny bird so high, as it very quickly but deliberately moved over the branches and needles of a pine, intensely focused. And below, in the same area, a quiet Ruby-crowned Kinglet flitted over the branches of a dense patch of privet, a little less focused, it seemed, more inclined to stop and look around, though certainly also quick and busy.

Along the edge of the old field by the highway, at least a dozen Song Sparrows emerged from the tall grasses and weeds to forage in the rough grass along the roadside. Each one seemed to work mostly in one of the clumps and windrows of dry, dead brown grass left over from mowing last fall. These clumps look pretty deep, and the sparrows pecked into them industriously and seemed to be finding food. As they foraged, the Song Sparrows’ movements were quick and twitchy, as if with nervous energy, tails switching back and forth, or up and down vigorously – this kind of movement seems characteristic of Song Sparrows, though I don’t know enough about other sparrow species to be sure it’s a reliable trait for identifying them. I most often see them here along with White-throated Sparrows, which seem more calm and deliberate in the way they move – though the White-throated Sparrows also seem more shy and quicker to flee for cover.

Later this morning, under a sky veiled in filmy-white, I walked through a light mist that must have been fog. No sunlight made its way through the mist, but the morning felt cool and spring-like, not cold or gloomy.

Out of the fog, two clear images emerged along the way. A Pine Warbler flew across the road in front of me, in a flash of warm, deep yellow, and stopped on the top of a utility box – not the most picturesque setting, but it was colorful and beautiful, just the same – a small, slender bird with yellow throat and breast and olive-yellow head, yellow spectacles around the eyes, and blurry olive streaks on the sides. Recently, the Pine Warblers’ musical trills have been among the most frequent bird songs, one of the first to sing in the morning, and often singing outside my office windows off and on all day.

Near the north end of the old field along the highway, several White-throated and Song Sparrows had flown out of the thickets to forage in the weedy, short grass along the roadside – and among them was a Field Sparrow. It flew up from the grass into a small, raggedy tree on the edge of the field and sat in clear view – a diminutive, pale, but pretty sparrow with a light-reddish brown and gray-striped face and head, brown-streaked wings, a long tail and plain grayish breast – and a white eye ring and pink bill.

Field Sparrows used to be so common here I pretty much took them for granted, and their cheerful, bouncing songs rose from many old fields and pastures as surely as the grasses, weeds and blackberry vines. These days I see and hear them much less often. They are not considered seriously threatened, but their populations are declining throughout their range, probably because of loss of habitat. In this area, more and more of the brushy old fields and pastures they need are being replaced by subdivisions, shopping centers and other suburban development.

A Field Sparrow is a good example of a bird that thrives on “abused land” that’s given a chance to recover, and is a testimony, perhaps, to the value of this kind of land – and its natural place in the process of succession.

At dawn this morning, first light, a fog of faint pink and orange spread over the southeastern sky. A Carolina Wren was the first bird to sing, followed soon by the blurry notes of an Eastern Bluebird. A Tufted Titmouse whistled peter-peter-peter, and an Eastern Phoebe swished its raspy song. American Crows cawed. A Northern Cardinal’s clear, colorful What-cheer, what cheer; birdy, birdy, birdy rang like a morning wake-up call. The honking of Canada Geese came and went as a small group flew over. A Pine Warbler’s sweet, gentle, but insistent trill moved through the edges of the woods.

There aren’t a great number of morning singers yet, but with the bedroom windows open to soft, damp, spring-like air, and the foggy light of a day that promises rain, it felt like a prelude to Spring.

Very late in the afternoon today, just before sunset, a Brown Thrasher sang from a branch near the top of a big sprawling shrub on the edge of a neighbor’s yard. The day had been sunny and mild, almost warm, with a soft blue sky. It’s the first Brown Thrasher song I’ve heard this year, marking another familiar event in the seasons, right about on schedule. The past few days I’ve been out of town, so I may well have missed the real first singer here – but it’s right about the time when they usually start to sing, mid February.

Snow had lingered for two or three days, very slowly melting, until finally, yesterday and today, the weather warmed and the last small, sheltered patches disappeared.

Soon after breakfast, I suited up in warm clothes and went out to walk in the snow – we don’t often get the chance and I didn’t want to miss it. The snow had stopped, the sun was shining, and a strong, cold wind had almost cleared the soft blue sky of clouds, except for a few small, cottony puffs. Dark gray trunks of trees in the woods stood in pools of frigid shadows all around, rising from a patchwork quilt of white snow and brown leaves on the floor of the woods.

A good many songbirds were scattered around the feeders, in the trees and under the shrubs in the yard. Chipping Sparrows, Brown-headed Nuthatch, White-throated Sparrows, Northern Mockingbird, Red-bellied Woodpecker, Downy Woodpecker – but I didn’t see the Fox Sparrow again.

The bright colors of a Northern Cardinal and an Eastern Bluebird perched in tall shrubs stood out like vivid, miniature paintings against the white snow and a blur of gray and brown limbs. A half dozen Dark-eyed Juncos flew up like soot-gray flecks of ashes from the ground into a bush as I walked past, twittering their high, sweet calls.

Pine Warbler, Carolina Wren and Northern Cardinal sang, and Tufted Titmice and Carolina Chickadees chattered. From down the road I could hear the conkarees of a flock of Red-winged Blackbirds, and American Robins stood and skittered here and there, foraging in snow-covered yards. Blue Jays cried. And not too far away I could hear the sounds of children’s laughter – out playing in the snow.

As I walked, I could see the tracks of crows, smaller birds, white-tailed deer, rabbits, raccoon, a couple of neighborhood dogs, and other tracks that I couldn’t identify. I think one was a possum. Others might have been the tracks of a fox.

After two days of sleet, misty rain and temperatures staying just above freezing, this morning we awoke to a world of white. Snow had fallen overnight, covering the ground, the roads, piling up on the balcony railing and even blowing into drifts against the garage door, almost a foot deep in places, though mostly three or four inches. Snow continued to fall for a while, very lightly dusting down – rare and lovely for us here.

Early in the morning, in tiny flakes of swirling snow, a big, plump sparrow was hopping and scratching under the bushes right outside our living room windows. Its wings and tail looked dark red-brown, and thick, blurry red-brown streaks marked its sides – a beautiful red Fox Sparrow. Its breast was very thickly streaked in rich red-brown, its belly white, and its face was patterned in dove-gray and fox-red – warm, lush colors in a snow-white setting, seen through a very light blur of snow. It turned toward me and spent a few minutes hopping to scratch up leaves and snow around the base of a cleyera bush.

I could hardly believe it was right there in our own front yard, very near the windows where I stood. Fox Sparrows spend the winter here, but because they are shy and usually stay hidden in shrubby places, they’re not often noticed, and it always seems special to me when I find one. I’ve rarely seen one in our yard – and yet, this is the second one I’ve seen in our neighborhood this winter. I watched for several minutes as it foraged right around this spot under the bushes and near the window – until it finally flew low toward the corner of the house and out of sight.