Birding Notes

This morning began with the soft hiss of sleet before dawn, and by the time the gray sky grew light, a thick white coat of sleet that looked like snow already covered the balcony outside our bedroom windows. The snug early quiet of the morning was broken by the grating shriek of a weather alert on my iPhone, warning of another winter storm.

With the temperature hovering in the low 30s, all morning a mix of sleet and light rain fell, but this was only the first wave of more to come, with the possibility of a seriously damaging ice storm before it ends. Schools, businesses and government offices have been closed in much of the state, and the forecasts all day have been dire.

Late in the afternoon there seemed to be a bit of a break in the weather, so I bundled up and went out for a short walk and fresh air. It felt great. It was cold, but with very little wind. A light, misty sleet fell the whole time I was out, but never enough to feel wet, and though I watched for icy patches, the roads and other surfaces all seemed fine so far. I could still hear a few trucks and cars on the highway, but traffic was lighter than usual. The trees stood silent and still against a low, murky gray sky, and the feel of the misty sleet on my face was clean and crisp.

The few birds I passed included an Eastern Phoebe, Red-bellied Woodpecker, a few Eastern Bluebirds, several Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, Northern Cardinals and Carolina Wrens, and small flocks of American Robins scattered all around. Several White-throated Sparrows and Song Sparrows foraged in the sleet-frosted brown grass along the side of the road, one Eastern Towhee called chur-wink, and a Brown Thrasher sat quietly in the top part of a shrub in the old field. I could hear the calls of Red-winged Blackbirds and Common Grackles scattered around, but saw no flock or gathering.

In our own front yard, especially around the feeders, Chipping Sparrows outnumbered all the other birds – even the Chickadees and Titmice. Four or five Chipping Sparrows at a time crowded onto one of the feeders, jostling for space – though every now and then a Cardinal or Downy Woodpecker or even a tiny, pugnacious Brown-headed Nuthatch would chase them away. But they’d come back.

All this winter we’ve had many more Chipping Sparrows visiting the feeders than in past years. We always have a good many, especially during the winter months, but they more often feed somewhere on the ground, usually in the grass, with two or three coming to a feeder now and then. Most days recently, there have been several at once crowding onto the feeder, and more underneath. I don’t know if it’s the particular mix of birdseed or some other factor – but I don’t really mind because they don’t seem to keep other birds away for long, as far as I can tell.

Also, as common as they are, I never seem to get tired of Chipping Sparrows. I find them appealing and endlessly entertaining to watch. Though several dozen Chipping Sparrows can almost disappear into a grass-covered yard, so small and unobtrusive as they hunt for food, just anonymous “little brown birds” – a closer look at an individual sparrow reveals a beautiful bird with bright, red-brown cap, crisp dark streak through the eye, a smooth gray breast, and streaked brown back and wings.

Today began cool and mostly cloudy, but by late in the morning, the clouds had begun to break up and blow away, with spreading patches of blue sky. As I walked up a road through a wooded area, a Red-shouldered Hawk cried a loud kee-yer repeatedly from a perch in the top bare branches of a tall hardwood tree. It was pretty far back from the road, but close enough to see the warm glow of its reddish breast.

A little further up the hill, a smaller hawk with a long tail suddenly streaked low across the road in front of me, in a swift gray blur, and up into a tree near the crest of the hill, where it sat with its back to me, partially screened by bare branches. I could see the long, narrow, banded tail, and the head looked rather small – it was either a Cooper’s Hawk or a Sharp-shinned Hawk – two closely-related long-tailed, short-winged hawks. Though I couldn’t see it well enough to tell for sure, I think it was the smaller, more compact Sharp-shinned Hawk.

It’s always an interesting and fun challenge when it’s not immediately clear, because these two can be very hard to tell apart, and I’m sure at least half the time I get them wrong. So it’s a chance to study the field marks and distinguishing characteristics and maybe learn something new. I was watching the small hawk closely and wishing I could see it better, when a Red-shouldered Hawk – considerably larger and unmistakable in its colors – flew into this same tree and perched on a branch in the very top, not far above the smaller hawk. For two or three minutes, they both remained in this tree, quietly. I kept watching the smaller one, trying to get a better, definitive view, until, abruptly, it flew, spreading its wings and gliding down and sailing out. Its clean, compact shape and sleek, quick flapping wings, followed by another glide, added to my impression that it probably was a Sharp-shinned Hawk, but it disappeared before I could be certain.

It was only then, when I turned back to look again at the Red-shouldered Hawk still in the top of the tree, that I noticed a second Red-shouldered Hawk perched below it, further down than the Sharp-shinned Hawk had been. As far as I could see, there had been no obvious interaction among the three, so I don’t know if they all just happened to pause in the same tree at once, or if there was a great deal more to the story that I missed.

These first few days of February have been a mix of cool, misty mornings and almost warm, half-sunny afternoons, with a new softness in the air. Pine Warblers sing more and more often, and their musical trills seem to become more fluent and expressive as the days go by.

Brown Thrashers are beginning to emerge from under the bushes and climb up into the lower limbs of trees, and I think they’re getting ready to sing.

Already Northern Cardinal, Eastern Bluebird, Carolina Wren, Carolina Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse and House Finch are singing, too – all year-round residents here. An Eastern Towhee called a rich chur-wink from a perch in a crape myrtle in our front yard this morning, while a Brown-headed Nuthatch, two American Goldfinch, Chickadees, Titmice, two Downy Woodpeckers and several Chipping Sparrows more or less shared the two hanging feeders. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet chattered as it moved through some shrubs, and a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker mewed. Several Dark-eyed Juncos flew up together, flashing the white edges of their tails, from the mulched area around a hedge. White-throated Sparrows in the bushes called tight sibilant tseeeets, and Mourning Doves cooed.

Late this afternoon, on a cool, half-cloudy day, two Black Vultures sat together near the top of a crooked old oak that rose above an overgrown area of trees, shrubs, and weeds. The oak is one of the tallest of several in this small, scruffy patch of land between two subdivisions. The pair of vultures sat so close together their wings were touching. Big, strange black creatures with wrinkled gray heads and faces, they looked out of place, as if they might have drifted in and settled here by accident, from another world or time.

A few yards away from the tree in which they perched, there’s another old oak with a very large hole in the trunk that looks like it opens into a hollow space. This tree looks a lot like the Spooky Old Tree in a children’s book by Stan and Jan Berenstain that’s been one of my grandchildren’s favorites. I wondered if the vultures might be getting ready to nest in the hollow in its trunk. For several years now I have seen a pair of Black Vultures perched like this, in this same spot, about this time of year, and later in the spring and early summer have watched two and sometimes three in this area, perching together in a tree or on a utility pole, or even walking and pecking around on the ground together.

Black Vultures do not build a nest, but lay their eggs inside places like hollow trees or stumps, brush piles or abandoned buildings. Pairs may spend several weeks perching near a nest site before laying eggs. They are monogamous and a pair may stay together, year-round, for many years, and may return to the same nest site repeatedly for years. Black Vultures are known for maintaining strong social bonds with their families throughout their lives. They gather at night in large communal roost sites that appear to play an important role in their complex and extensive social life.*

Black Vultures are carrion eaters, and often are seen as sinister in appearance. When perched or standing on the ground, they look ungainly and awkward, but when soaring on a clear, sunny day – they are beautiful to watch, with broad, strong black wings with large white patches that flash silver in the sun. They usually seem to soar much higher and with more grace than their relatives, the Turkey Vultures.

A vulture’s perspective on life is clearly much different from our own, but it’s interesting to think about what this pair might be experiencing as they sit in this old tree, and to wonder whether they’ve returned here year after year. From where they sit, they can surely see the busy highway just on the other side of the field, as well as a good many cars, and people and dogs walking by on the closer road, not far away, including me.

This small patch of old oaks overgrown with weeds has become a smaller and smaller scrubby island over the past decade or two, now bounded on three sides by the streets and homes and manicured lawns of two subdivisions. So if the vulture pair has been nesting here for several years, they’ve seen a lot of changes.

* Neil J. Buckley. 1999. Black Vulture (Coragyps atratus), The Birds of North America Online (A. Poole, Ed.) Ithaca: Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

On the last day of January, a few last traces of snow still lingered in the shadiest spots, especially in the woods, the brown landscape dotted and frosted here and there with white. But by late afternoon the day had become sunny and balmy, almost warm, with sunlight that seemed to illuminate details with unusual clarity.

The crimson throat and crown of a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker glowed like glass as it clung to the trunk of an oak. The bold, curving black-and-white striped patterns of its face, the broad white stripe down the wing, and even the yellow flush on the belly looked vivid and fresh.

A White-breasted Nuthatch working over the trunk and branches of a large old pecan tree showed a snow-white face and throat, ink-black cap, and steel-blue back, as it paused now and then to raise its head and bark a nasal call. It crept up and down and around and sideways, paying special attention to the forks in the branches, and where the branches met the trunk.

But the prettiest surprise of the afternoon was finding two Golden-crowned Kinglets in the treetops of a scrappy, patchy area of gray water oaks. I heard their high, thin ti-ti-ti calls and stopped to look for them, without much hope of being able to see them very well, because they were up so high. Although a few Golden-crowned Kinglets have spent the winter here, and I’ve heard them now and then, I haven’t seen them often this winter.  This time I could see two tiny birds flitting over the branches in the treetops, too high to see their markings clearly at all – but as they went, they turned sideways and upside down, and the sunlight caught the black-and-white stripes on the face, and the bright yellow of their crowns several times – turning them into the gold of their name. A perfect touch.

Wow. In a weedy area of bushes and withered vines along the edge of an old grove of oaks, I was watching for sparrows, towhees, maybe a thrasher, but so far hadn’t found any in this particular place. It was late in the afternoon, still cold enough so that remnants of snow remained in many places, but the sky was clear and sunny.

Some movement and a glimpse of bright red-brown among the tangled branches caught my eye, and I stopped to look. The sunlight was perfect, coming from behind me, though at first I still could only see glimpses of the bird rustling in leaves on the ground – a bright red-brown tail, then the shape of a big, plump sparrow, and then it turned so that I saw its head and face – elegantly marked in soft gray and red-brown with a large conical bill. It was a Fox Sparrow, a shy and beautiful bird whose appearance lives up to its name, with a mix of red and gray colors that can vary greatly in pattern.

The sparrow quickly became very still, knowing it was watched, half-hidden among the dry brown vines, branches and grasses, but because of the clear light, I now could see it fairly well. It stood with its back to me, looking over its shoulder toward me and nervously flicking all over, just slightly.

The expressive tail was a rich, blazing red-brown, looking especially brilliant in the sunlight. The wings and back were a mix of red-brown, dark-brown and gray; the white breast thickly spotted and streaked with deep red-brown, especially in the center of the chest, and the throat clean white. Blurry streaks of a more muted, reddish brown marked the sides. The whole bird was an alluring mix of colors and patterns so subtle and appealing that I could have watched for a very long time, lost in some realm of imagination.

So I wanted to keep watching, but felt guilty for frightening the reclusive bird and causing it to pause in finding food on such a cold day. After a few moments, I took a step back, to see if it might think I was leaving – and amazingly, it worked. After I took just one small step backward, the sparrow immediately began to move again, and went back to foraging in the leaves as if I’d gone, giving me an even fuller and clearer view.

It moved in a quick and delicate way, with a lightness and energy, and stayed close around this same area to forage, scratching up leaves with its feet in a two-legged hop like a towhee, and feeding.

It was a fascinating sighting, and so nice to have such a clearly lit, close, long view. I think this is only the second Fox Sparrow I’ve seen here in our neighborhood, and the first in at least two or three years. They probably are here more often, and I just overlook them. Although a Fox Sparrow is one of the largest and most colorful of sparrows – dramatic and memorable in appearance – it’s not often seen, because it’s a shy bird that prefers dense, brushy vegetation in the woods. A bird of the far North, it’s only here in the winter months, and usually seems to forage in small groups, with a few other Fox Sparrows, or with other ground-feeding birds like sparrows, towhees and thrushes.

Yesterday a light dusting of snow was just enough to leave the landscape looking iced in white – and enough to cause schools and businesses to close, and massive traffic jams in Atlanta.

Here we were lucky, with no problems, and today some snow still lingers in shady places. It’s a sunny day, but still quite cold. Late this afternoon I was surprised to find relatively few birds active around the neighborhood – I had thought the sun might bring more out – but even more surprised that among the few I saw were four Hermit Thrushes in four different places.

The first one was sitting among the bare branches of a small maple tree, repeatedly calling its liquid chup, chup. The small tree stood on the chillier, shaded side of a hill. The feathers of the thrush looked very ruffled up in the cold, but the dark spots on the throat and breast were easy to see, and it continued to call as I stood below the tree to listen and watch.

The second Hermit Thrush looked more comfortable in a warmer spot, foraging with several White-throated Sparrows, a Brown Thrasher, and a pair of Eastern Towhees on a sunlit grass-covered slope lined with a rough hedge of shrubs. The thrashers and towhees stayed mostly up under the shrubs, but the Hermit Thrush came out further onto the sunny, open grass, along with the sparrows – a slender, robin-like bird with brown back and wings, warm-cinnamon tail, and prominent dark spots on the throat and breast. It stood erect, with head held high, in a watchful manner.

The third one was foraging with several American Robins – and when I first saw it, I thought no, it couldn’t be another one – but it was. As I walked closer, at first the robins and thrush all hopped away from me, preferring to hop or walk, and not fly – but when I finally got too close, the robins all flew to nearby shrubs – but the Hermit Thrush just kept hopping ahead of me, head up, looking startled, but not flying, even as I walked on past.

The fourth Hermit Thrush perched on a branch of another small bare tree along the side of the road – again in a sunlit spot. Several Chipping Sparrows and a few Yellow-rumped Warblers and Eastern Bluebirds perched in other small trees and shrubs in the same sunny area, and flew from spot to spot.

It’s not uncommon to find a Hermit Thrush here, and I’m not at all surprised to know there might be several spending the winter in the neighborhood. There are certain spots where I usually look for one. But most often they’re so quiet and unobtrusive that they easily escape notice, so to find so many on a single afternoon is unusual – and a delight. The behavior of all four also reminds me that, although Hermit Thrushes are reclusive and quiet, they’re not necessarily shy.

Again this afternoon, a large flock of blackbirds came through our back yard and woods and stayed around for an hour or more. Today the weather was warm and balmy, with a silk-blue sky and only a few high, scattered white clouds.

Despite the calm weather, this time the birds were very difficult to see, because the sun was shining almost directly behind them. Also, the flock seemed even more skittish and flighty, with large numbers of them frequently moving from place to place, flying up into the trees, then dropping down to the ground again. The only ones I could see or hear for sure were Common Grackles and Red-winged Blackbirds.

Like all blackbird flocks, this one was loud, with a constant mix of harsh creaking, gurgling, and trilling calls that all together wouldn’t usually be described as peaceful or pleasant. But in contrast, the sounds of their wings can be enchanting.

When a large number of them burst up into flight at once, they make the very familiar sound so often heard in large flocks of blackbirds – like a blanket being snapped in the wind, a sudden clap, followed by a big, rushing swoosh of their wings all together. A fraction of a second before this burst of wings, there’s a sudden, abrupt silence of their clamorous calling – then comes the clap and the swoosh – and then the calls begin again immediately as they settle into a different spot, usually in the trees.

Today I also was charmed by another sound of their wings that I don’t remember noticing before. A large part of the flock had been startled into flying up into the trees just inside the woods. Their calls began again the second they touched the trees. After no more than a minute or two, a few began to drop down to the ground again and began tossing through the leaves – and then a great number of them began to shower down out of the trees to the ground, not all at once, but a flowing curtain of fluttering birds – and the sound they made as they came down was magical – a quiet sort of whispering, hissing, crackling, like the sound of sleet pattering down, dozens and then hundreds of blackbirds at a time.

In another part of the large, widespread flock, several Red-winged Blackbirds, a few Common Grackles and American Robins were tossing up leaves on the floor of the woods, and among them was a very plain blackbird that caught my eye because it looked different from the others. It was slender, with a thin straight bill, and plumage that was a very plain, drab gray all over – maybe it was grayish-brown, but it looked shadowy gray – with slightly darker wings, and its eye was dark, not yellow or pale. I think it may have been a female Brewer’s Blackbird.

This afternoon a large flock of blackbirds arrived with a great deal of commotion in the trees around our back yard, and in the woods that stretch downhill, beyond the yard. Hundreds of blackbirds perched in the trees and dropped down to forage on the leaf-covered floor of the woods. The flock included Common Grackles, Red-winged Blackbirds and Rusty Blackbirds, at least a thousand birds in all, a very rough, conservative estimate. A good many American Robins were mixed in with them, probably here before the blackbirds flew in.

The flock stayed around for almost an hour. The day was chilly, half-sunny and very windy, so the pines were tossing and the hardwoods creaking in the gusts. Although the blackbirds all were constantly moving from tree to tree and trees to ground, it was still possible to get some beautiful views through a scope set up on our back deck. The best view was of a group of several Rusty Blackbird males foraging together in a sunny spot, where the yellow eyes, buffy eyestripe and rusty stippling on the back and chest showed up unusually well.