Birding Notes

On a cold, crisp, sunny morning with a clear blue sky, the bare limbs of the trees all around the front yard hummed and sizzled with a sibilant rustle. A pair of Eastern Bluebirds hunted together, the male from a perch on top of the bluebird box, the female from branches nearby. Chickadees, Titmice, a Brown-headed Nuthatch and a Downy Woodpecker came and went from the feeder. A Pine Warbler sang.

Then – zzhrreeeeee. The strangely entrancing, rising, metallic call of a Pine Siskin emerged from the low, constant sizzle of calls in the trees, mingled with the mews of American Goldfinches. A Pine Siskin flew to the feeder, quickly joined by two more. Diminutive, slender, brown-streaked birds with short, pointed bills, and a touch of yellow in the wings, Pine Siskins seem to have arrived in great numbers all over this part of Georgia the past few days or weeks.

Pine Siskins breed in more northern and western parts of North America and migrate south for the winter, but their movements are described as nomadic – variable and unpredictable, apparently depending on availability of food sources, especially certain kinds of seeds. Some years they arrive here in large numbers, while in others few are seen. Because we don’t have a thistle feeder this year, I didn’t expect to see many around – but today they were coming to an ordinary block of songbird feed – mostly sunflower seeds, with millet, safflower seeds and peanuts.

Despite their tiny size, Pine Siskins are aggressive and voracious, even fierce feeders, lunging not only at other Siskins, but also at much larger birds, trying to dominate the feeder. The Chickadees, Titmice, Downy Woodpecker, Brown-headed Nuthatch and other frequent visitors seemed undeterred while I was watching, more or less ignoring the Siskins – but the Siskins had a big advantage in numbers. I couldn’t see how many were in the trees, but it sounded like quite a few.

I have mixed feelings about Pine Siskins, finding them disconcerting to watch at times, but intriguing and uncommon visitors. And I love to listen to their edgy, sliding, electric calls, like a current of alien music.

In the deepest part of winter here, Pine Warblers begin to sing. Their musical trills move through the pines and bring a prelude of spring to the gray, bare-limbed woods. This winter season, I heard the first Pine Warbler’s song December 22, just after the Winter Solstice, and in January more and more have been singing.

A Pine Warbler is a small warm-yellow bird with gray wings, white wing-bars, blurry streaks on the sides, and a subtle ring around its eye. The only wood warbler that stays here year-round, it’s well-named, most often found in the pines. It’s not bright or flashy – especially a plainer, less-colorful female or juvenile – and can be hard to find as it moves through a tree, searching the needles for insects. Sometimes they’ll be out foraging on the ground with other small birds like sparrows, finches and bluebirds in grassy yards or along the roadside, yellow smudges of color glowing against a drab background.

While the Pine Warbler’s trill seems to me the emblematic birdsong of January, other birds already are singing now, too, and some recent early mornings have almost sounded like spring – especially through the middle of January, when we had several days of unseasonably warm, sunny weather. The Pine Warblers and Carolina Wrens have been joined by Tufted Titmice singing peter-peter, and the rich, flowing burdy-burdy-burdy, what-cheer, what-cheer of Northern Cardinals.

The songs are sung against a background of many other bird calls, mostly dryer and not so musical sounds, more wintery in their character – the chicka-dee-dee-dee of Carolina Chickadees and day-day-day of Titmice coming and going from the feeder in the yard; the ubiquitous caws of American Crows in the distance; the whinny and pink of a Downy and the rattle, chuck and quurrr of Red-bellied Woodpecker; the sweet, clear mew of a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, sharp kleer of Northern Flicker, and now and then the emphatic peenk or kingfisher-like rattle of a Hairy Woodpecker as it flies to the trunk of a dead pine.

Ruby-crowned Kinglets stutter jidit-jidit in low shrubs, and occasionally there’s the high ti-ti-ti of a Golden-crowned Kinglet in the treetops – though they have not been abundant here in our neighborhood this season. There’s the cheery, squeaky-dee chatter of Brown-headed Nuthatch and nasal ahnk-ahnk of White-breasted Nuthatch; the high, thin tsees of a flock of Cedar Waxwings flying over in formation or perched like ornaments of glistening colors in a cedar tree; the dry check calls of Yellow-rumped Warblers as they flit from branch to branch; the soft, jingling ring of a startled Dark-eyed Junco, flashing the white sides of its tail as it flies up from the ground to a branch; the coo of a Mourning Dove; the blurry chur-a-wee of an Eastern Bluebird – already sitting possessively on top of the bluebird box; the short squeak of an American Robin sitting in a tree; the harsh jay-jay calls of a Blue Jay.

A mellow chup comes from a Hermit Thrush, its spotted breast and cinnamon tail screened by a tangle of low tree limbs; White-throated Sparrows hidden in thickets or bushes hiss tsseeet; a bold black, brick-red and white Eastern Towhee in a bare crape myrtle sings a bright chur-wheeee – and now and then we hear the deep, thrumming, foggy hoots of a Great Horned Owl around sunset, not every day, but pretty often.

The agitated cawing of a large number of Crows often means they’ve found a Red-tailed Hawk. I usually see at least one or two during a day – soaring, or perched on a pole overlooking the highway, or flying low across the treetops, pursued by Crows. One flew from a pecan tree in a yard as I approached, just this afternoon, its tail sunset orange. It landed in another tree way across the yard and then screamed, a good long scream.

The Red-shouldered Hawks have been mostly quiet lately, with a kee-yer call now and then, and the finest sight of one recent morning was a soaring Red-shouldered Hawk, its banded tail flared, its breast ruddy-red, the sun shining through the feathers of its wings. In contrast, the Turkey Vultures and Black Vultures are silent background birds, sailing and soaring and glistening on sunny days; shadowy on gray days, sitting hunched and gothic-looking on utility poles, or in a scrubby, craggy oak in the tangle of thickets and abandoned land between our subdivision and the next.

After thinking of all of these songs and calls, all these birds, it seems strange to say it – but overall, it’s been a rather quiet month, this January – quiet in the sense of fewer birds than in previous years. I have not seen the very large mixed flocks of blackbirds that in other years have been common here in our neighborhood – not even as many as just before Christmas. There are blackbirds now, but not nearly so many. I’ve also not seen the large mixed feeding flocks of smaller birds – the sparrows, finches, and others that usually spread out across grassy yards in fairly large numbers almost every day this time of year. This year, birds are here, but they seem to be more scattered, and fewer in number.

Because there’ve been many days this month when I’ve been out of town or for other reasons did not get outside, this may not be an accurate observation, so I’m not sure it’s true. Maybe I’ve just been out at the wrong times. But this is how it has seemed.

On a cool afternoon of soft sunlight barely showing through high, layered clouds, a small, slender, dark-brown spot shivered up the trunk of a pecan tree at the edge of our front yard – a Brown Creeper. It’s the first Brown Creeper I’ve seen in many months, maybe a year or more.

A tiny sliver of a bird, with a mottled, dark-brown back patterned in a way that blends in with the bark, a Creeper is often almost invisible. But its distinctive way of moving can catch the eye. Close to the tree on very short legs, it scuttles up quickly, insect-like, turning slightly this way and that as it spirals around the trunk, probing into crevices and under the bark with a down-curved bill. This one was near the bottom of the trunk when I first saw it, and I watched as it moved up – the brown, mottled patterns of the back, long tail, the snow-white throat, and especially that swift, slightly jerky, creeping movement.

It went around the trunk and up as far as the first large branch, then flew back down to the bottom of the same tree and made its way back up once more before flying to another tree nearby.

There’s a magical feeling about a Brown Creeper, in part because it’s so seldom seen, but also because, even when seen, it appears so much a part of its surroundings. It’s like a trick of the light, a flake of the tree that turns into feathers and flies, but not far, a small shift in the scene as it blends back in, and disappears.

Late on a cool, cloudy morning the front yard was active with small birds, and though there never seemed to be large numbers or a flock at any time, in no more than 20 minutes standing on the front porch, I saw or heard 21 different species.

A Northern Mockingbird sat on the feeder when I first came out – probably trying to monopolize it. But it soon gave up and flew away, and Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, a Downy Woodpecker, a House Finch pair, a Brown-headed Nuthatch and a Carolina Wren all came and went. Two Dark-eyed Juncos, a White-throated Sparrow and three, four, five Mourning Doves searched for seeds under the feeder.

A male Eastern Bluebird sat on top of the bluebird nest box – already looking possessive – up near the edge of the yard, and a female Bluebird hunted from low branches of nearby oaks, flying down frequently to pick up an insect or something. An Eastern Towhee called a rich chur-wheeee, and an Eastern Phoebe whispered tsup, tsup. Yellow-rumped Warblers flew from tree to tree, scattering check calls. Two bright spots of red, Northern Cardinals, foraged on the ground under shrubs near the road, a Red-bellied Woodpecker chucked and called its spring-like quurrrr, and a tiny Ruby-crowned Kinglet moved quickly and quietly through the branches of shrubs. Crows cawed in the distance, and several Canada Geese honked as they passed by.

A White-breasted Nuthatch – an infrequent visitor to our yard, though I often hear the call of one or two in the neighborhood – flew to the trunk of a pine, where I watched it spiral around, pause while upside down, and look up in its classic pose, showing off the sleek, sharp lines, the snow-white face and throat, black cap and blue-gray back.

But my favorite bird of the morning was a Hermit Thrush that flew in a flurry out of some bushes not far from the porch and into a Savannah holly tree beside where I stood, and perched there a minute or two, not far away, sitting very quietly among a tangle of branches and sparse leaves, maybe hoping to blend in. With soft-brown back and dark-spotted breast, it lifted its cinnamon tail and lowered it again, and watched me with a round dark eye.

The New Year began with the song of a Carolina Wren, its music bright and colorful enough to light up a morning of dark gray clouds and no sign of a sunrise. A cold gray rain began to fall, slow and steady, and it fell all day and into the night.

The small, feisty Carolina Wren, cinnamon-brown with a long, upturned tail, warm orange-buff breast and pale stripe over the eye, is such a familiar presence around our house and yard that I too often take them for granted. It’s the little brown wren that rustles in the bushes next to the porch, searches for spider webs all around the deck, stops by the feeder now and then, and so often tries to nest in a corner of the garage or in a hanging fern. A plain little bird with a glorious voice.

Bold, curious, and very vocal – with a wide repertoire of songs, trills, buzzing, scolding, burbles and other calls – the Carolina Wren is a compact feathered package of boundless energy and persistence. It’s assertive, active, entertaining and sometimes even comical to watch – but when it sings, the sheer beauty and power of its song can take your breath away. It sits on the deck rail here, head back, bill parted, throat throbbing, and its whole body bounces up and down with the passion of its song.

Late afternoon on the last day of the year was cool, gray, cloudy and quiet. A pair of Bluebirds perched in a young red maple in our front yard. A Chipping Sparrow flew up from the edge of the road into another small tree. American Robins foraged in the grass. I heard the tsup calls of an Eastern Phoebe, the pink of a Downy Woodpecker, a Red-bellied Woodpecker’s chuck-chuck, an Eastern Towhee’s rich chur-wheee, a White-throated Sparrow’s sibilant tseet, and the chatter of Carolina Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse, Brown-headed Nuthatch and House Finch, the fussing and trill of a Carolina Wren. The usual suspects – and not even all of those – on a calm and peaceful evening.

Much later, around ten o’clock at night, a Barred Owl called, HOOO-owww. Just that, again and again, several times, from somewhere around the woods in our back yard. HOOO-owww. Much better than fireworks, I think – a very fine way to end the year.

On a cold, clear morning, four Mourning Doves stood and slipped on the icy surface of the birdbath and sipped at small spots of melted water. As Christmas approaches, the days have been busy, and there hasn’t been much time to spend outside, but this morning I took about ten minutes just to stand on the front porch with binoculars and look around, and listen.

A Pine Warbler sang from a scrubby, wooded area on the edge of our front yard. The song sounded a little different from the usual musical trill, adding a note or two each time at the end of the trill.

Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice and one Downy Woodpecker came and went from the feeder, then a Chipping Sparrow joined them – and then a big Red-bellied Woodpecker flew up and temporarily displaced them all. A Dark-eyed Junco and a pair of Northern Cardinals foraged for seeds under the feeder. One Carolina Wren sang, and another flew to the feeder after the Red-bellied Woodpecker had flown away. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet stuttered jidit-jidit, moving through the bushes.

An Eastern Phoebe perched on a small shrub near the road, bobbing its tail; American Crows flew over, some cawing; a Blue Jay perched in the wax myrtle hedge; a Brown-headed Nuthatch squeakily chattered in the pines.

Several Yellow-rumped Warblers flitted from branch to branch in the trees – then one began to come toward me, making its way through low branches of nearby trees. It seemed to be watching me, and coming toward me on purpose, as if it were curious. As it got closer and closer, it chirped in a fuller, more musical kind of call than its usual dry flight chip. It moved through a water oak, then into the Savannah holly right beside me until it came quite close, paused there and cocked its head as if getting a good look – then it flew away.

The sun was almost setting by the time we drove into the large protected area of woods and fields around the water treatment plant. While I checked out the pine woods around the plant – and found very few birds at all, only the peeps and chips of small birds settling into cover for the night – Marianne went down into what we call the sparrow fields, a huge expanse of grass and thorny weeds and shrubs that stretches all the way to the river. The sun went down and the sky turned orange. The sweet, whistled song of a White-throated Sparrow rose from the fields, which were full of sparrows – White-throated, Savannah, Song and Swamp Sparrows, and maybe other birds, too hard to see in the dying light; and close to the river, a Common Yellowthroat gave its “clicking marbles” call.

Just after the sun went down, we both heard several loud, screeching screams. They continued, with pauses, for several minutes, and seemed to come from woods across the river. It sounded like a large bird – but when we got back together several minutes later, as darkness fell, neither Marianne nor I could think of what kind of bird it could be. For us, it was a mystery. It was later that night, at the potluck gathering where the lists of all participants in the count were reported and compiled, that another birder suggested it must have been a Barn Owl.

In retrospect – and after listening to recordings – it seems very likely that’s what it was, but we may never know for sure. A few other birders at the meeting were hoping to return to the area and maybe hear the screams again, but I don’t yet know if anyone was able to confirm it.

A Barn Owl is a large, beautiful, rarely-seen bird, ghostly pale underneath, with a white heart-shaped face and black eyes. They are found in many parts of the world, but populations in parts of North America are in decline, and there are concerns for their future because of loss of the open habitat they need, like fields and grasslands.

In the grass and weeds behind the fire station we watched several Savannah and Song Sparrows, many perching in the tops of tall weeds and in small bare trees, as well as along the old remnant of fence. This field of weeds and shrubs stretched out for several acres, into an abandoned orchard and beyond that, to an area where more trees and large shrubs had grown up. The area was full of hundreds, if not thousands, of birds – Chipping, White-throated, Song and Savannah Sparrows; Eastern Bluebirds; Northern Mockingbirds, Brown-headed Nuthatches, American Robins, Cedar Waxwings and a large flock of Red-winged Blackbirds that also included Common Grackles and Rusty Blackbirds.

This place had, by far, more birds than any other spot we visited during the day. In part, this may have been because we came to it at a good time of the morning, but it also had a good mix of habitats – grass, tall weeds, shrubs, vines, and a wooded section of pines and oaks. At one point, we stood in the gloomy shadows of a huge thicket of privet that grew way over our heads, with hundreds of Cedar Waxwings fluttering, flapping and mewing their high, thin calls all around us and flashing glimpses of elegant crests, black masks and yellow-tipped tails. It was a magical, delightful feeling – until it suddenly occurred to me that maybe standing under this many waxwings feeding voraciously on privet berries might not be such a good idea. And right about that time I felt a wet plop of Cedar Waxwing poop hit the top of my head.

When we finally left this area, I heard a familiar hoo-HOOO-hoo call – and looked around for a Eurasian Collared Dove. We didn’t expect to find one there, so I thought I must have been mistaken, especially when we waited a few minutes, listening, and did not hear another call. But then as we drove out of the fire station parking lot, there sat two Eurasian Collared Doves, perched on utility wires along the busy road, easily recognized by their size, pale gray color and broad, squared-tipped tails – and the black half-collar on the nape of the neck. Later in the day, not far from this same spot, though further from the main road, we found nine Eurasian Collared Doves feeding under pecan trees.

The highlight of the Christmas Bird Count day for me was a small, rather plain, brown-streaked bird – a Savannah Sparrow, perched on a white wooden fence in clear, soft, late-morning sunlight, surrounded by tall brown grass and weeds. A neat pattern of thin, dark brown streaks marked its white breast.

A plump little sparrow with dark-brown back and wings; a short, notched tail; and a small yellow spot just over the eye, it perched with other sparrows on the fence in a rough, overgrown patch of weeds and grass behind a fire station, not far from the intersection of two busy urban roads.

Though I’ve seen Savannah Sparrows many times before, this was the best and clearest view I’ve ever enjoyed – and for the first time I fully appreciated its beauty and had the time to watch for several minutes. By the time we left this area, I felt as I had really come to know a Savannah Sparrow for the first time. Whenever I see one in the future, it’s this sighting I’ll remember.

The pattern of fine, clean streaks on the snow-white breast defined the Savannah Sparrow for me. A Song Sparrow perched beside it offered a good contrast – the dark brown streaks on its breast and sides looked more coarse and crowded, as if they had been painted with a thicker, less patient brush, and the central spot in the Song Sparrow’s breast was much larger and darker. The Song Sparrow also showed more russet and gray coloring, especially around the face, a longer tail – and it vigorously switched its tail in a characteristic way. The Savannah Sparrow did not do this, so it seemed more calm and serene in behavior.