Birding Notes

Early September afternoons feel warm, green and golden, lulled by the buzz and hum of insects. Very few birds sing. A Northern Flicker calls sharply, kleer! An Eastern Phoebe calls tsup and swoops from branch to branch, pausing low in the shade, with soft-yellow breast and dark-gray head. It pumps its tail impatiently and looks around, not staying long before flying off to catch another insect and perching again in a different place.

An Eastern Wood-Pewee calls a dreamy wheee-ooo from a higher perch on a dead, bare branch, flies up to catch an insect and returns, again and again, to the same spot to hunt.

Three scrappy persimmon trees stand on one corner of a neighbor’s yard, growing closely intertwined with four water oaks. The trunks of one persimmon and one water oak seem melded together at the bottom, and then grow up into separate trunks. The persimmon trees now are loaded with fruits, and the water oaks with small acorns. Further down the road a tall, lanky, craggy old apple tree holds a good crop of ripening apples. Squirrels already have begun to harvest pecans and acorns, and a few are dropping early to the ground.

A scattering of crusty brown and yellow leaves have begun to show here and there, though most of the trees all around are still a dark, dense, deep summer green. This afternoon in a low spot near a creek, a golden shower of leaves, lit by a shaft of sunlight, swirled gently down in a breeze.

Red-bellied Woodpeckers call chuck-chuck-chuck and rattle. Downy Woodpeckers whinny more delicate rattles and pink calls. The traveling kuk-kuk-kuk of a Pileated Woodpecker moves through the woods. A Carolina Wren trills, another burbles. A Northern Cardinal peeps. A Mockingbird flashes its white wing-patches as it flies into a bush and calls a harsh djeeerk. An Eastern Towhee whistles a rich chur-wheeee.

The big, finely woven webs of orb-web spiders have begun to appear in many places. There’s one fat, reddish, fierce-looking spider that spins a very large circular web across part of our deck each day and hangs in its center until one of us walks into it. It’s placed so that it hangs between the deck umbrella and the side of the house, so the early morning light shines through it when it’s still new and fresh, and we can admire its intricate pattern. Then later, the big web becomes less visible and we get busy and forget, and end up with a face and hair full of sticky not-so-pretty spidery silk, and the spider scurries to collect what’s left of its grand creation, to spin another day.

Very early one recent morning, in the gray light of dawn, a Barred Owl near our back yard hooted a series of deep, haunting who-cooks-for-you, who-cooks-for-you-aawl.

Red-shouldered Hawks have continued to be especially vocal and active the past two or three weeks. Lately their kee-yer calls can often be heard around a low, wooded area bordered by a creek. I’ve watched as many as three together, calling vigorously and moving from tree to tree. Often one or two are soaring.

This morning – a sunny, hot and humid day – a Red-shouldered Hawk flew from a pecan tree in a large, grassy yard shaded by many trees that the hawks especially seem to like. Several times I’ve seen one there, quietly watching the ground from a perch in a low branch. This time it flew across the road well ahead of me and into the woods.

Then I heard the cries of a second Red-shouldered Hawk coming from the opposite direction, and found it sitting in a bare branch in the top of a large oak near the crest of the tallest hill around. It sat facing in my direction, broad red breast glowing in the sun, head turned in profile, surrounded by at least five noisy and agitated Blue Jays. Some of the Blue Jays perched in branches fairly close to the hawk, others flew around and toward the hawk, and all cried harsh jay-jay-jays, but didn’t seem to get close enough to strike it. The hawk looked placid, though it called a strong, full kee-yer from time to time, with long pauses in between. As the Blue Jays flapped and screeched, it turned its head deliberately, one way and then the other, watching the jays, but it didn’t fly. After watching for several minutes, I walked on, leaving the hawk and the jays still there.

After an unusually gray and rainy summer, the end of August has brought several days of very warm, sunny, beautiful weather, a gift, with cool mornings, soft blue and white skies and light breezes.

Because summer birds have seemed so quiet and scarce this year, some I would usually see or hear almost every day now are less frequent and seem more special each time I find them. This morning, a Red-eyed Vireo sang its clear, quick, repeated series of phrases, in the trees around one corner, not far from the woods.

A Yellow-throated Vireo sang its similar, but more burry, mellow song in an area of crowded crape myrtles and tall shrubs. Though distinct, it was singing rather softly. Then it surprised me by coming out into the edge of the branches as it foraged, and showing its bright yellow throat and breast, yellow-green head, very white wing bars, white belly, and yellow spectacles around the eye.

A small round whirring form zipped past me, twittering as it went, and hovered over a big mound of orange and yellow lantana – a Ruby-throated Hummingbird. This is one species whose numbers seem to be about normal this summer. At least three or four now visit our feeder on the back deck almost constantly all day every day, and several of our neighbors also report watching hummingbirds at their feeders. Every once in a while, like today, one will pass me in other parts of the neighborhood, twittering as it zips by in a speedy blur, like a very tiny Road Runner cartoon.

Along a mostly quiet, wooded stretch of road, cicadas sang, a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher called spee, and a pair of Brown-headed Nuthatches chattered as they moved through some pines. The sudden, loud kee-yer calls of a Red-shouldered Hawk nearby were startling, and abruptly, a hawk flew out of the trees on one side of the road and glided on open wings across an open space and into more trees. It flew low across the grass and up as it came to the woods, showing a breathtaking view of the upper side of its checkered wings, and black and white banded tail. The warm deep-red shoulders glowed.

It disappeared into the trees, and was immediately followed by a second Red-shouldered Hawk gliding low along the same path, showing just a glimpse of its ruddy-red breast as well as the back, head and tail. One or maybe both cried kee-yer loudly several times more, after they were out of sight.

To see Red-shouldered Hawks like this, so close, and in such clear light and colorful detail feels dramatic and stunning. Their presence fills the moment in every way with life – and then, they are gone. Though not far. Much of the time they blend quietly into the trees, and sit unseen, like spirits of the woods.

A little further up the road, two small, delicate brown butterflies fluttered low over a mixture of grass and short weeds along the edge of the woods. 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 at least.  They were Little Wood Satyrs – moth-brown butterflies, small but not tiny, 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.

Often found in open grassy areas in or near woodlands, they’re common and widespread in the eastern U.S., but uncommonly lovely, with a gentle, understated charm. They are known for basking on tree leaves or leaf litter in early morning and late afternoon with wings open, and for their slow, bouncing flight, usually close to the ground, though they also fly up into trees.

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.