Birding Notes

Late this morning on a sunny, cool day, a Field Sparrow perched on a ragged branch of a privet thicket in the old field. It was a day when a good many sparrows were active in the field – more than I have usually found there this winter. Most were White-throated and Song Sparrows, coming out to forage along the roadside in the rough, dry weeds and grasses. This one was a little different, a drab-colored sparrow with pale rufous and gray-striped head, a white ring around its eye and a pink bill. Unlike most of the other sparrows, it did not disappear back into the thicket when alarmed, but flew to another exposed spot on the edge of the bushes, and then to another, several times as I watched.

Field Sparrows used to be very common here, but in recent years they have become much less widespread, and around our own neighborhood and here in the old field, I see one only infrequently, and seldom hear their cheery, bouncing songs – and I especially miss those songs.

Field Sparrow populations are declining throughout their range, though they are still considered common and fairly abundant. They nest in scrubby, second-growth habitat like abandoned old fields and the edges of woodlands, but do not generally nest in developed suburban or urban areas, so in a county like ours, where fields and woodlands are being replaced with subdivisions and shopping centers, their habitat is being lost and I see and hear them much less often.

On a sunny, mild, spring-like morning, a Chipping Sparrow perched on a fencetop along the edge of a yard and sang – a long, sweet, level trill. The red-brown of its crown was very bright, its breast glowed smooth gray in the sunlight, its back a streaked dark brown, and a sharp dark eyeline marked the pale face. It’s the first Chipping Sparrow I’ve heard singing this season, and its trill was a new part of the soundscape, joining the songs of Brown Thrashers, Eastern Phoebe, Pine Warbler, Northern Cardinal, Eastern Bluebird and Carolina Wren.

A Yellow-bellied Sapsucker mewed in trees around the edge of the woods, a Northern Flicker called a loud kleer, a Ruby-crowned Kinglet stuttered its jidit-jidit. The zhreeees of Pine Siskins mixed with the mews of American Goldfinches, a pair of Brown-headed Nuthatches chattered their squeaky, cheery calls; a Downy Woodpecker whinnied, a Red-bellied Woodpecker called quuurrr, and one or two Golden-crowned Kinglets in the bare limbs of some oaks called their high, whispery ti-ti-ti.

It was a gorgeous morning with a cloudless blue sky. Two Turkey Vultures and one Red-shouldered Hawk were soaring. Dozens, maybe hundreds of American Robins were scattered on the grass of yards all through the neighborhood. Bright and brassy and colorful, they’re everywhere – harbingers of Spring.

But it was the Chipping Sparrow’s trill that felt like the highlight of the morning – because it’s new. Even though they’re among the most common birds here year-round, they are favorites of mine, in part because, except when they’re singing, they are quiet, unobtrusive little birds, and often go unnoticed. Unlike the constantly chattering, familiar Titmice, Chickadees, and Carolina Wrens, the Chipping Sparrows call in plain quick chips.

During the winter months, dozens of them may be foraging in short brown grass along a roadside or in a yard, and I don’t even see them until something startles them and they suddenly spray up in a sparkling flash of wings, into nearby low branches, in a characteristic way. Even when they do start to sing, a Chipping Sparrow’s colorless trill is not flamboyant or musical, though it’s one of the most characteristic and common birdsongs in our neighborhood in spring and summer. It’s quiet and steady and plain – or seems to be, though when I listen closely, I often hear different qualities in the trill – at different times of day, or different times of the season, or different individual birds – subtle variations that are not obvious.

So I find them interesting, and think a Chipping Sparrow may like some quiet persons, not calling attention to itself, but when you get to know it, revealing unexpected facets.

When I got home, I noticed there seemed to be no small birds around the feeder or in the yard. Everything looked pretty quiet, but that’s not too unusual. So I was surprised when I got almost to the bottom of the driveway, and a fairly large gray bird suddenly flushed up from the ground behind some hollies and into a low branch of a water oak not far away.

It was a Cooper’s Hawk, and though I know size can be hard to judge, it looked quite large, with smooth gray wings and back, a long tail with bands of dark and light gray, and a ruddy-barred breast. From where I stood, the head looked dark and strong, and I could even see the red of its eye. It perched on the branch for several moments, turning its head to look around, with many of its feathers looking slightly puffed out, and ruffled by the wind.

When it finally flew, it spread its wings and sailed swiftly down, flaring the banded tail. It seemed to disappear into some large shrubs around the house next door, but I couldn’t tell exactly where.

It might have been hunting the Mourning Doves that hang out under the feeder, or Robins, or smaller birds – or maybe the chipmunks that we often see around these hollies and the edge of the driveway, right around where the hawk had been.

In another, more wooded part of the neighborhood, a Tufted Titmouse sang this morning. Many Titmice have been singing for a month or so now, and their whistled peter-peter songs are so familiar and common that I’m guilty of usually hearing them more as background sound, and not paying much attention to them. A small, silver-gray bird with bright black eyes and perky crest, white breast, and peach-colored patches under its wings, a Tufted Titmouse is among the most common birds around our yard and woods year-round, very often coming to the feeders and flocking with Carolina Chickadees, Downy Woodpeckers and Brown-headed Nuthatches. Its raspy day-day-day alarm calls are frequently heard.

Maybe because this one was so close, in a tree by the side of the road, its song sounded particularly clear and pure, with a more complex quality in the notes than I’ve ever noticed before. Its simple, whistled peter-peter-peter suddenly sounded exotic. Each note carried a hint of a stringed sound, with a slightly varied quality, lyrical and expressive. I don’t think this particular song was unusual for a Titmouse – it’s just that I had never really stopped and listened carefully to one sing.

March arrived with a cold, breezy morning, and a brisk blue sky with lots of white clouds, and by late morning, a strong, gusty wind. In all the beautiful, cloud-clotted, blue March sky, I only saw a few Crows and one Turkey Vulture soaring.

Although the sound of traffic on the highway beyond the old field seemed especially loud this morning, a Song Sparrow perched on top of a tall, ragged stem of a weed among many weeds, on the edge of the old field – out in clear view. It was a particularly pretty Song Sparrow, with a russet and gray-striped head; short, thick, pointed bill; white throat bordered by dark patches, coarse dark-brown streaks on the sides, converging in a rather small dark spot in the middle of its chest; and pinkish legs. It sang several times as I stopped to watch and listen – against the background noise of the traffic and the wind. The song sounded hesitant and broken, not fluent, not confident, but enthusiastic and determined. Its long tail wasn’t twitching around nervously as Song Sparrows so often do. It sat still on the top of the tall weed stem and just sang, again and again, a series of creaky but musical whistles and chirps, ending in a trill.

February came to an end with several days of cold, gray rain, broken by a sunny day or two, then more rain. Today was a chilly, windy, cloudy day, clearing, but the sky still crowded with gray and white, and small patches of blue. Now and then the sun came out, then slipped behind the clouds again.

Few birds were out in the strong, late afternoon wind. A Black Vulture soared, high and fast. Crows flew over and cawed. Lots of Robins and a small flock of Red-winged Blackbirds, with a few European Starlings and a very few Common Grackles fed in one yard, and Yellow-rumped Warblers and Chipping Sparrows in another, all staying close to the ground.

One Northern Mockingbird sang from a perch low in a bush, close to the roadside, the first Mockingbird I’ve heard singing this season.

As I walked along the edge of the old field, head down in the wind this afternoon, I saw mostly only brown, drab, flat weeds and grass, brushed with the soft gold-tan of broomsedge on the edge of the dreary thickets of vines and privet in the field. No sparrows came out today. Instead, along the roadside I passed a blue Bud Lite can, an empty, crumpled package for Camel cigarettes, odd bits of white paper and styrofoam, a plastic water bottle, a thin strip of orange plastic, a white elastic band for a ponytail, another Bud Lite can, some wrinkled cellophane, a piece of faded yellow paper with print on it, another plastic bottle, still half-full of dark soda – and four lush yellow daffodils blooming on tall, drooping stems in a clump of dark-green leaves.

Late in the afternoon – the day still sunny and mild – the front yard looked and sounded as if a party were going on. Dozens of brash and brassy American Robins perched in trees, drank from the birdbath and ran across the ground in quick spurts. One of them somewhere was singing – a hesitant, tentative Robin song. Five American Crows strutted around the edge of the road.

An Eastern Phoebe sang as it traveled from spot to spot – and another sang in response from the yard next door. Yellow-rumped Warblers flicked check calls as they flew around in the river birches, maples and wax myrtles. On the feeder, a pair of House Finch, Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, a Downy Woodpecker and several Chipping Sparrows jostled for space – only room enough for three or four at a time, at the most. Two Brown-headed Nuthatches darted in to grab seeds, then sat on nearby branches to crack them. Several Mourning Doves, Dark-eyed Juncos and more Chipping Sparrows picked up seeds from below the feeder. A Pine Warbler sang.

Then a small brown bird with a dark-spotted breast flew up into the Savannah holly tree beside the porch where I was sitting. I always forget how small a Hermit Thrush is, really. It looks larger when seen alone, especially through binoculars. This close – too close for binoculars – it looked very small and vulnerable, with smooth brown head and back; dark-spotted breast, and pale-ringed eyes that give it a perpetually watchful, guarded look. It ate a holly berry, then turned its back to me and sat very still, not even lifting its tail, for several minutes. Its feathers all looked fluffed out, in its wings and on the belly, and it held the tail down and still. Occasionally it looked over its shoulder toward me, looking at me with a round, dark eye, but still it stayed. Finally it turned around again – and then it flew. It never made a sound, except for the flutter of its wings.

It’s very different to watch a small bird like this – not removed by distance or binoculars, but just to sit there very close and share the space and the moment. Time does not stop. But it seems to.

After several minutes more, I began to hear the tsseeet calls of White-throated Sparrows and heard scratching in dry leaves. Gradually they began to emerge, materializing out of bushes not far away from me. Their plumage and patterns were vividly sharp, with russet, black-streaked back; smooth gray breast; black-and-white striped head; clean-white throat outlined in black, and the small smudge of gold above the eye.

On my way back toward home, walking through a more open area, past yards dotted with pecan trees and houses surrounded in shrubbery, set back well from the road, a startled chipmunk suddenly dashed across the road in front of me – a small, striped, reddish-brown chunk of fur with an upturned tail – and disappeared into a sloping green bank along the side of the road.

In the spot where it had disappeared I found a neat, dark little hole set in a miniature lush green landscape. It looked charming, like an illustration in a children’s book. All around the entrance rose ruffled mounds of tiny green rounded leaves –speckled with delicate bluets in bloom. A Red-winged Blackbird sat in a bare-limbed tree above me calling a liquid churk, and an Eastern Bluebird sang.

On a spring-like morning in late February, cool and clear, with a deep-blue sky, not a cloud in sight, a Carolina Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse, Northern Cardinal, Carolina Wren and Pine Warbler all were singing. A Mourning Dove cooed. A big, boldly colorful Eastern Towhee perched in the pale brown branches of a crape myrtle and called chur-wheee.

The wintery mews of American Goldfinches and zhreeee calls of Pine Siskins filled trees in the background, and American Robins were scattered everywhere, especially in large grassy yards. Red-bellied Woodpeckers rattled and called quuurrr, and Downy Woodpeckers whinnied, and one woodpecker somewhere drummed a loud roll.

A tiny Golden-crowned Kinglet called a whispery, high ti-ti-ti as it flitted around in some oaks, hard to see, but after watching it for several frustrating minutes, trying to follow as it moved so quickly and constantly – almost like trying to watch a flying gnat – I finally caught a glimpse of black and white stripes on the face – and a tart orange crown.

Carolina Wrens and House Finches sang, and as I walked up a hill in a wooded part of the neighborhood, I began to hear the conkaree calls of Red-winged Blackbirds. The flocks of Common Grackles and Rusty Blackbirds that were common here in December and very early January haven’t been around for quite a while now. The flocks were never as large as in previous winters, and they now seem to be gone. But there’s a relatively small flock of Red-winged Blackbirds around most days, maybe 200-300 birds at most, and usually only two or three dozen. This morning I found only a few feeding in the grass in one of their favorite yards with European Starlings and Robins, and a few more Red-wings up in the trees.

A Brown Thrasher sat in the top of a tree and sang a full, fluid song; a Ruby-crowned Kinglet stuttered its jidit-jidit calls from a hedge of hollies. One Black Vulture soared over, and a Red-tailed Hawk sat on top of a utility pole overlooking the highway beyond the old field.

Along the roadsides and in yards, yellow dandelions, purple henbit and bluets are in bloom; the dandelions dotting expanses of brown grass; the frail little bluets all but invisible unless you look for them; the henbit spreading in big dark purple patches, with Yellow-rumped Warblers and Chipping Sparrows almost disappearing as they forage among the faded grass and weedy flowers.

As I walked down a hill with lots of trees on both sides, the kee-yer calls of a Red-shouldered Hawk pierced the mostly quiet morning, and after a few moments, I could see it flying low just beyond a line of trees. Then it flew into sight, still calling, and perched in a very tall, bare-limbed sweet gum, out in full view. It sat with its back to me and its head turned in profile, and called over and over, a little different from its usual cry, though only slightly – almost one syllable instead of two – Kyeer! Kyeer! The colors and patterns of its plumage were vivid in the sunlight, the black back checkered with white and mixed with dark brown, the warm red shoulders and ruddy-red breast just barely visible from behind. When it flew, the tail fanned out, showing the bands of black and white.

As I was watching the Downy and the Siskins, I heard the choppy, agitated calls of a Red-shouldered Hawk not far away, and a minute or two later, a Red-shouldered Hawk flew out of the woods on the edge of the yard, and sailed low on outspread wings almost right over me, and up into a branch in the pecan tree in front of where I sat on a bench. As it flew over, it looked huge and its tail was spread, showing the bright black and white bands, and the checkered pattern of its wings, but its underside looked mostly pale, only vaguely reddish on the breast.

It perched on a branch with its back to me. Then, within a minute, a second Red-shouldered Hawk flew in from the same direction and swooped up onto the same branch, sitting very close beside the first one. This hawk sat facing me and sitting erect, showing a beautiful view of its head and face and richly ruddy, red-orange breast.

Both hawks sat there for maybe four or five minutes, the first with its back to me and tail lifted, so that it kind of stretched out in an almost horizontal position. I could see the warm, tawny-orange back of the neck and upper shoulders. The other hawk stayed facing in my direction. It turned its head, looking around, as if assessing the scene. Then it leaned back toward the other hawk, and the two may have touched bills – there were some small branches obscuring my view a little, so I’m not sure.

After another minute or two of just looking around, the hawk facing me spread its wings and flew, gliding low across the yard and into the trees across the street. The first hawk turned around on the branch so then I could see its breast – it was less-deeply colored than the other, but I think was larger, maybe the female.  Very quickly it, too, flew, following the other one this time, into the same area of woods.

Wow.