Birding Notes

This morning our yellow blooms of lantana had come to life with a fluttering burst of several Fiery Skipper butterflies, and with them, one larger Silver-spotted Skipper.

The Fiery Skippers are very small orange and brown or black butterflies that – when they’re not fluttering from bloom to bloom – often hold their wings in a kind of triangle shape, with the forewings held upright, and the hindwings folded flat. At first glance, they appear kind of plain, even drab, but a closer look shows big black eyes in a fuzzy face that’s very appealing. I watched several probing individual yellow blooms with long, thread-like black proboscis. Their short antennae have tiny orange clubs on the ends. 

The Silver-spotted Skipper is larger, but with a similar shape. It’s a much darker brown, with a prominent silver-white band on the underside of its hindwings. 

In doing some research about them – because I know very little about butterflies, but would like to learn – I found one source that said Silver-spotted Skippers almost never visit yellow flowers – but this one was visiting yellow lantana blooms, and I have often seen them in past years in our lantana. Maybe it’s not their first choice – maybe they have few choices here.

A column by Charles Seabrook in today’s Atlanta Journal-Constitution, “Where Are the Butterflies?” notes that a number of observers in Atlanta and other areas of Georgia have noticed a scarcity of butterflies this summer. I read the column with great interest, because around our home in Oconee County I have seen very few butterflies this year – and their absence is stunning.

Specific reasons for the low numbers are not yet clear, Seabrook writes, and might include something like this year’s very wet spring. However, there is growing concern worldwide for the future of butterflies and moths, and a number of studies have begun to document alarming declines. Widespread use of pesticides, habitat loss, climate change and other factors threaten butterflies – and many insect species. 

I started to notice a decline in butterfly numbers here about three or four years ago, but this year there are the fewest yet. And it’s not only that we see fewer in number, but there also are several species that seem to have completely disappeared – at least here, in this one place. At the same time, I have suddenly become aware that we’re seeing far, far fewer moths than we used to see at night. 

We have taken them so much for granted, these ephemeral gifts of impossible beauty – in our yards, along the roadsides, in towns and gardens and thickets and weeds. Tiger Swallowtail, Black Swallowtail, Red-spotted Purple, Buckeye, Gulf Fritillary, Fiery Skipper, Silver-spotted Skipper, Clouded Sulphur, Sleepy Orange, American Painted Lady, Red Admiral, Little Wood Satyr, Eastern Tailed Blue, Gray Hairstreak, Blue Azure, Mourning Cloak, Monarch, Viceroy – these are some of the butterflies we’ve seen just here in our own neighborhood over the past 19 years. And now? Many seem to be gone.

I remember standing one enchanting summer afternoon along a roadside – six years ago – in a shady spot near the woods, and watching two Little Wood Satyrs flit among the brown stems of weeds and grasses – small, moth-brown butterflies with wings patterned in soft, intricate shades and scalloped lines of brown, tan, and taupe, and several large dark eye-spots ringed in yellow around the edges of the wings. They paused to rest in the grass, sometimes with wings spread, and sometimes with wings held up, then fluttered up again but did not fly away or fly far, staying around this small spot for several minutes. It was like watching fairies dance. 

It is heartbreaking to realize that we are in serious danger of losing the beauty and magic of butterflies and moths in our lives. Scientists are doing important studies, and more is being learned, but I’m afraid most people simply don’t realize what’s happening – or how fast.

By mid-morning the sun felt very hot, bleaching the sky as it climbed. Chipping Sparrows trilled their songs from trees along the roadside. Mourning Doves cooed. Three Chimney Swifts twittered as they flew over and swooped down close to a roof. As I walked down the road, I heard a scattering of calls from the usual suspects – a few Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, several Carolina Wrens, two Brown-headed Nuthatches, a White-breasted Nuthatch, Red-bellied Woodpecker, a Northern Mockingbird and several House Wrens and House Finches singing, and many Eastern Bluebirds, some sitting in the tops of trees, facing the morning sun. I didn’t hear a single Red-eyed Vireo – one of our summer birds that used to be so common here, but now I seldom find. But one Yellow-throated Vireo was singing high up in the foliage of trees around the edge of a neighbor’s yard. They, too, have become much less common here, so it’s been good to hear this one’s mellow, burry phrases for the past several days.

In the hazy, blue and white sky, two Mississippi Kites seemed to appear out of nowhere. They were high, but not too high to see well – the smooth gray color, and ash-white head, and white in part of the long, gray wings. I watched as they circled several times, gradually climbing, watching their quiet, graceful flight, the clean, sharp lines, the tilt of the dark, fanned tail just as one passed low over my head. Sailing, gliding, buoyant – they rose higher and higher, and finally soared away toward the South, over the trees and out of sight. 

When I came to the entrance of our subdivision, oh my! A Blue Grosbeak sat in the very top of a tall pecan tree, singing. A richly colorful bird with a richly colorful song – deep, ink-blue, with orange-brown bars in the wings and a big silver bill that glinted in the sun, the Grosbeak lifted its head and warbled a shining cascade of notes that rose and fell. 

Just across the road, in the large, overgrown old field that hides the view – though not the sound – of a busy highway below, a tiny Indigo Bunting also sang. Perched in the top of one of the tallest pines on one side of a power cut, the small, bird-shaped dot of brilliant blue chanted its sweet-sweet-chew-chew-sweet-sweet over and over again. Apparently undaunted by the constant growling roar of traffic. 

Two White-eyed Vireos repeated chik-per-chickory-chik in the field from hidden spots deep in the thickets, along with the notes of Eastern Towhees, Carolina Wrens, and a Northern Mockingbird sitting on a wire. A sparkling, silvery Blue-gray Gnatcatcher flitted and hovered in and out of the weeds, catching insects. And a little further on, on a street of neatly-manicured lawns and shrubs, a Gray Catbird mewed a raspy call from among the leaves of a large crape myrtle, where I saw its slender, dark-gray shape and long, jaunty tail just briefly before it flew and disappeared into a Leyland cypress tree.

Soon after sunrise this morning, the day already felt very warm. The sky was still a gentle blue with scattered, small white clouds. From somewhere in the woods around our back yard, a Pine Warbler trilled a cool and shady song. Two Eastern Towhees called back and forth, chur-whee, one on either side of the yard. A Summer Tanager sang from trees around the edge of the woods, and from further away, I could also hear the more strident notes of a Scarlet Tanager. An Acadian Flycatcher sang its sharp but quiet pit-sah! from down around the creek. A Great Crested Flycatcher whistled a burry whreep – and another answered. 

An Eastern Bluebird pair made frequent trips to and from a nest box, feeding babies that cheeped loudly each time a parent arrived. Ruby-throated Hummingbirds zipped often to the feeder that hangs from the deck. A Chipping Sparrow sang a long, level trill; Carolina Wrens burbled, fussed, and sang. A Tufted Titmouse piped peter-peter. A Downy Woodpecker whinnied. An American Goldfinch flew over, and I could hear the distant caws of American Crows, as well as the muffled noise of morning traffic. 

The long, percussive ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-cawp-cawp-cawp-cawp of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo echoed through the trees from pretty far away. Even though it rarely comes close, I’m happy to hear a Yellow-billed Cuckoo at all, because it’s the only one I’ve found around our whole neighborhood so far this summer. Sometimes the distant songs and calls of once-familiar birds like the Cuckoo, the Scarlet Tanager, and the Wood Thrush we hear now and then, sound like birds that are fading away, not a sudden disappearance, but drifting further and further away each year. 

Just a few days later, I watched another Mississippi Kite. It was a hot, humid, sunny summer morning, with cicadas singing loudly and small insects swarming in shafts of light. The sleek, dark raptor with long, pointed wings appeared in a soft blue sky. Its shape and flight were so neat and crisp they might have been drawn in ink against the sky. 

For several minutes, it circled directly above me, slowly rising higher, and I watched the whole time, only turning away when it flew right across the path of the sun. It was absolutely glorious to watch – its cool, dark gray and shining near-white pattern cutting through the hazy air with such cool grace. 

I watched as it sailed in large circles, floated in the air, and once it appeared to lean over to eat something from its talons. After several minutes, it had climbed a little higher and I thought it was going to keep climbing and maybe sail away, but instead, it suddenly plunged down fast, from fairly high, directly down, and disappeared behind some distant trees. I waited for a few minutes more, but it didn’t reappear.

Like the essence of summer in flight, a Mississippi Kite was a beautiful note on which to end this month of June. 

Mid-morning on this warm, rather quiet summer day, a dark, slender phantom of a bird, with flashes of ghost-white in its wings flew low out of trees on one side of a neighborhood road, and disappeared into trees behind houses on the other side. I stopped to watch, and after only a few moments, it flew again, emerging from one spot in the trees and flying to another – and then much deeper into the woods. Though it was only a very brief look, it was enough to see the distinctive near-white head and dark gray color and shape of a Mississippi Kite. 

I wasn’t expecting to see a Mississippi Kite here, in the middle of a neighborhood of neat green lawns and manicured landscapes, where mockingbirds, cardinals and towhees are more common. An elegant raptor known for its graceful, acrobatic flight over sunny fields and pastures, the kite felt like a very exotic visitor down here in the shadows of these suburban oaks and pines. And yet, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen one here this summer. 

Mississippi Kites are still relatively uncommon in this part of Georgia, though over the past few years they seem to be reported more often, and in our own neighborhood, I’ve been seeing one or two fairly often this summer. I can’t say for sure that a pair is nesting here, but I see them most often around one particular wooded area near a creek, sometimes perched in a tree and sometimes in flight. They are only here in the summer months, and spend winters in central South America. 

In some regions of North America, like the southern Great Plains, Mississippi Kites are much more common and even abundant. They frequently nest in large colonies and often in urban areas. East of the Mississippi, where they are found in several southern states, including Georgia, they are much less abundant, and nest most often in old-growth forest. 

A Mississippi Kite is a slender raptor with long pointed wings and a long, square-tipped tail. It is pale gray below and darker gray above, with a very pale head that looks almost white, and white in part of the dark-gray wings. The wingtips and tail are black. When it’s soaring high, it often appears all dark, even black, but when it’s low enough the gray color and pattern becomes apparent, and the head glows white in the sun.

Known for their acrobatic, buoyant flight, Mississippi Kites are a joy to watch as they circle, dive, turn, and swoop, catching large flying insects in their talons and often eating them as they fly. 

This morning would have been a lovely day in April or May. But in early February, it didn’t feel right. After a few cold, crisp days to begin the month, the weather has now turned unseasonably warm. The air drifting through my open windows between 7:00 and 8:00 felt soft and balmy, and birds filled the morning with song. Pine Warbler, Carolina Wren, Eastern Towhee, Eastern Bluebird, Tufted Titmouse, and Carolina Chickadee all were singing. Ruby-crowned Kinglet, Brown-headed Nuthatch, American Goldfinch, and Downy Woodpecker called. A Red-bellied Woodpecker purred its spring-like quurrr. A Mockingbird squawked harshly, and Northern Cardinals peeped. American Crows cawed, and a flock of blackbirds scattered their calls as they flew over. A Mourning Dove cooed.

By afternoon on a sunny day, the temperature had risen to 80 degrees. 

A little later in the morning I stopped for a while to watch a Red-headed Woodpecker that has spent this winter in trees around one particular yard in our neighborhood. I can usually hear its somewhat harsh, rolling churrr, or – if it’s quiet and I stop to look for it – can find it high up on the trunk of one of the trees. When it’s quiet, a Red-headed Woodpecker can be surprisingly unobtrusive. Despite its flashy coloring, somehow it can manage to blend in with the black and gray and white of the winter trees. But once found, those colors pop out and amaze – a full deep-red head; a snow-white breast, black back, and broad white panels on the wings. It looks like a flag in flight – with its big, bold pattern of red, black and white.

I found it this morning on what seems to be its favorite tall, bare, half-dead water oak, up near the very top, working on a stub. It’s the same craggy tree that a pair of Mississippi Kites seemed to like for a perch last summer. For a few moments I stayed, admiring its colors and watching it work, before it flew, heading deeper into the trees along a creek. 

This winter at least four Red-headed Woodpeckers have spent the winter months here in Summit Grove. This is the first time I have ever been aware of more than one – though, of course, I might have missed one now and then. So this year I’ve tried to take advantage of the opportunity to watch them as often as possible. 

They all stay well spaced-out and solitary, each one in its own particular area of the neighborhood. Two are mature and vividly colored. One is a juvenile, in more subdued colors, with a full brown head and dark-brownish back. The fourth, I haven’t seen, but have heard calling many times from a low, wooded area near a creek and a power cut and a water treatment plant. Their distinctive rolling churrr has become very familiar this season – in part because one of the mature woodpeckers has stayed in trees around the edge of our own back yard, which slopes down steeply to a creek. It’s a rare delight on a winter day to walk out and hear its call and sometimes see it fly to a tree nearby – it never fails to surprise me with the simple, remarkable fact that it is here. 

February began with a cold, frosty morning, around 28 degrees very early, clear and sunny, with pale, almost white light, and a soft blue sky with high, feathery clouds and spreading jet trails. When I first stepped outside, I caused a flurry of wings and leaves as Eastern Towhees, a Brown Thrasher, and maybe some sparrows or wrens fled into the shrubs. Towhees called chur-whee, and a House Finch and an Eastern Bluebird sang. Three Northern Cardinals, two females and a male, were foraging in a small strip of grass along the road. Some Brown-headed Nuthatches called their squeaky-dees from nearby. 

As I walked uphill along our driveway, a Pine Warbler trilled its song from a wooded area across the road. Pine Warblers have been singing for almost a month now, since early January, which is about the time I usually begin to notice them again. I haven’t heard many, but here and there, a lyrical trill brings a touch of spring-like color to the grim gray woods.

The rest of a walk through the neighborhood was pleasant and mostly uneventful, with the usual suspects along the way – American Robins scattered out in big, grassy yards; a Ruby-crowned Kinglet calling its dry jidit-jidit in thickets on the edge of Colliers Woods; Tufted Titmice, Carolina Chickadees and Carolina Wrens fussed and sang; an Eastern Phoebe hunted from a low branch; Red-bellied Woodpeckers called chuck-chuck; and one Downy Woodpecker called its silvery, descending rattle. In one rough patch of trees and tangled undergrowth, a well-hidden White-throated Sparrow called a clear, repeated alarm – chink! chink!

All in all, the day felt mostly quiet and peaceful. Mourning Doves cooed. A Turkey Vulture drifted above, the only soaring bird in the sky. One Northern Flicker fed in some grass, and a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker worked on a pecan tree. A flock of around 200 blackbirds, mostly Common Grackles, as well as I could tell from a distance, moved restlessly around in several yards, flying constantly in small groups from trees to grass and back to trees. 

This month of January ended with a day that felt like winter should – cold and clear with a sharp, westerly wind, and a thin blue sky and high, feathery clouds. A beautiful day, but quiet, with very few birds, maybe because of the wind. 

Late in the afternoon, Tufted Titmice, Carolina Chickadees, Carolina Wrens, and Red-bellied Woodpeckers – even the usual suspects seemed fewer and more quiet. A Turkey Vulture drifted over and around, in and out of sight. A female Eastern Bluebird perched on a branch, feathers ruffled in the wind, and some House Finches called and one sang. A Yellow-bellied Sapsucker mewed. Three or four Brown-headed Nuthatches chattered in some pines, and a Pine Warbler sang. A bright red Northern Cardinal sat in a leafless tree, up high. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet flew across the road low, a tiny, flickering ball of gray-green, and disappeared into a thicket. Two little Chipping Sparrows flew up from the edge of our own front yard and hid in plain sight among the sparse leaves of wax myrtles. 

Four Northern Flickers burst up from a circle of grass in the middle of a cul de sac, white rumps and yellow under the wings and in the tail flashing brightly. Big, handsome woodpeckers seen as often on the ground as in trees, Northern Flickers can be found here year-round, but we see them much more often in winter, when some have moved south for the season. They mainly eat food found on the ground, especially ants and other insects. Mostly brownish overall, a Northern Flicker is regal in bearing, with a gray head held erect, a brown face, long, sturdy bill, and a bold pattern of colors including a black bib; a black-spotted belly; a red crescent on the nape of the neck, and a black moustache on a male. 

Although Northern Flickers are still widespread and often seen, data from the North American Breeding Bird Survey show a disturbing decline in their numbers. The reasons for the decline are not known for sure, but habitat loss and competition from European Starlings for nest cavities are considered likely. “This declining trend should be viewed with concern,” according to the species account in Birds of North America Online, “because the species plays a central role in the ecology of woodland communities where it excavates many of the cavities later used by other hole-nesting species.”*

*K.L. Wiebe and W.S. Moore (2017). Northern Flicker (Colaptes auratus), version 2.1. In The Birds of North America(P.G. Rodewald, Editor). Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, USA.