Birding Notes

In a large, rambling yard this morning, many small birds were feeding in a mixture of tall and short grasses, bushes and trees – Eastern Bluebirds, Chipping Sparrows, White-throated Sparrows, more than a dozen House Finches, an Eastern Phoebe, Downy Woodpecker, Red-bellied Woodpecker, Northern Mockingbird and at least one singing Carolina Wren. It seemed like the place to be. A flock of Cedar Waxwings perched in the bare branches of a pecan tree. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet stuttered as it moved through a bush. A Northern Flicker called a sharp kleer!

Then a small, very dark gray bird flew up from the grass into the edge of a shrub along a fence – its dark, solid color with flashes of white standing out against a background of mostly brown and muted tones. It was a Dark-eyed Junco, the first one I’ve seen here this season – another returning winter resident. A plump, slate-gray bird with a round head, pink bill, white belly, and white feathers on the edges of the tail, a Dark-eyed Junco usually forages in grassy areas with flocks of sparrows and other ground-feeding birds. Its light, jingling trills sound to me like a ringing of small bells. Usually there are several together, but this one seemed to be alone – though there might have been others around that I just didn’t see.

Nearby, a Chipping Sparrow perched in a yellow-leafed bush, its plumage an autumn mix of dark and light streaked brown, with a smooth gray breast, white eye stripe, and faded reddish-brown crown.

A soft, silk-blue morning sky with high, white, windswept clouds looked beautiful but empty, and the woods and yards seemed mostly quiet, so my thoughts had drifted off to somewhere else. As I walked past an area of shrubs and trees around the entrance to our subdivision it took a few seconds for the rich, almost musical tchup, tchup calls, slow, with pauses in between, to bring me back to the moment – and to realize that I was hearing the calls of a Hermit Thrush.

For several minutes I stood and listened and watched, scanning the shrubs, small trees and vines. The bird continued to call, and it sounded as if it were right in front of me, but I could not find it in the orange, brown and green speckled foliage. Finally I saw a bird dive from a small tree down into the dense leaves of hollies, where it disappeared and fell quiet. It had been right in front of me.

It was frustrating – not for the first time, or the last, I’m sure – but nice to hear, and to know that a Hermit Thrush is here. For us a Hermit Thrush is a winter bird, similar in size and shape to a robin, but smaller, more insubstantial in appearance, and not at all as bold in coloring or in behavior. Its back is brown, with dark spots on a pale breast, and a cinnamon-colored tail that it raises and slowly lowers, over and over. A faint eye-ring gives its face a watchful look, and it often holds its head high with the bill pointed slightly up.

The Hermit Thrush is well named – subdued in color, unobtrusive, and somewhat reclusive and solitary in habit. But it’s not always hard to find, especially in winter months. Though it does most often seem to be alone, it may travel along with feeding flocks of other birds, and commonly forages on the ground for insects, seeds and other food with sparrows, towhees and others. It moves like a robin on open ground, running a few steps, then stopping and looking around. When startled, it may fly only a short distance onto a low limb and sit there, raising and slowly lowering its cinnamon tail, flicking its wings and calling a soft, musical tchup.

Around 5:00 this afternoon, on a cool, sunny day, as I was driving home from an errand, coming down the last hill on the way to our house, a fairly large bird was standing in the middle of the road ahead. I slowed to a stop not too far away, expecting it to fly, but it didn’t move.

I had no binoculars but was close enough to see it well. It was a medium-size hawk, not as large as a Red-tailed or Red-shouldered, but considerably larger than a songbird. It looked tall and slender, but sturdy, with a prominent head and profile, and a long, narrow tail stretched out behind it, resting on the pavement. It was a juvenile Cooper’s Hawk, with brownish-gray back and head, very pale, almost white breast, streaked with fine, dark brown, especially on the upper breast. For at least three or four minutes, it just stood there, turning its head to look around. No other vehicles came along, and it seemed not bothered by my pickup truck. Finally, I began to inch the truck very slowly forward – and as soon as it moved, the hawk flew, spreading its wings and sailing low over the road, over the open grass of a yard and into the trees beyond.

Late on a cloudy, cool, very gray afternoon two red maples at the edge of our front yard lit up the street with the rose-red glow of their leaves, radiant and colorful as sunrise against a background of misty gray and brown.

The afternoon at first seemed quiet, almost hushed, with little wind. Then sounds began to emerge. Carolina Chickadees and Tufted Titmice chattered as they came and went from the feeder hanging in the oaks. Two Mourning Doves, a Northern Cardinal and three White-throated Sparrows searched for seeds beneath it. The tsseeet calls of more White-throated Sparrows came from somewhere in the bushes. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet stuttered jidit-jidit. Two Carolina Wrens sang, trilled and burbled. A Brown Thrasher feeding in the grass fled abruptly into the low, dark branches of the wax myrtles. A small flock of blackbirds, mostly Common Grackles, flew over with hoarse, creaky calls. Yellow-rumped Warblers flew up and back among the bare branches of three river birches, scattering quick check calls. American Crows cawed and Blue Jays cried down the street. An Eastern Phoebe sang.

At the top of the driveway, I heard the high, thin calls of Cedar Waxwings – and sure enough, found about half a dozen perched in the bare branches of a river birch, the first ones I’ve seen this season, though I’ve been hearing their calls for several days now. In the murky gray light, their warm brown color, lemon-yellow belly and even the touches of glistening yellow and red didn’t show up well – they were barely more than silhouettes. But the sleek, smooth shape, crested head, and black mask lined with white were clear.  Then I realized there were many more than the few in the birches. The leaves of the two red maples were fluttering and bustling with Cedar Waxwings. A few perched in the branches, but most of them seemed to be unsettled, flapping their wings and moving around. It was impossible to count them all, but many more than a dozen.

Its good to have them back – both for their icy beauty and for the sprays of thin, high calls that add their part to the fall and winter soundscape again.

October is coming to an end with a string of warm, sunny, colorful days, with trees and all the vegetation now turning red, orange, yellow and brown. Leaves drift down in almost constant showers, and many acorns and pecans are falling – it’s a good year for both, and squirrels are working overtime and everywhere.

Eastern Phoebes, Carolina Wrens and Eastern Bluebirds sing. Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, Northern Cardinals and Downy Woodpeckers come and go from the feeder, while Mourning Doves pick up seeds underneath. Red-bellied Woodpeckers, Brown-headed Nuthatches and White-breasted Nuthatches are usually around; Crows and Blue Jays, always. Northern Mockingbirds quietly patrol, except for an occasional loud, harsh call. Brown Thrashers and Eastern Towhees forage under the shrubs, and sometimes venture out.

Black Vultures and Turkey Vultures soar, and several times I’ve seen a Cooper’s Hawk, soaring or flying low nearby. Small flocks of American Robins fly over, and rustle in the treetops with squeaking calls. Northern Flickers punctuate quieter days with kleer calls.

It’s been a month of arrivals and departures. We saw the last two Ruby-throated Hummingbirds at our feeder October 16. Now winter residents have returned and begun to settle in – Ruby-crowned Kinglets, Golden-crowned Kinglets, Yellow-rumped Warblers, Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers and White-throated Sparrows – bringing changes to the soundscape that echo the seasonal changes in color, activity, weather and mood. I’ve heard the high, thin calls of Cedar Waxwings several times in the past few days, but so far haven’t seen them. The ank-ank calls of a Red-breasted Nuthatch have so far always been in the distance, and I haven’t seen one yet.

And I’m hoping for a Hermit Thrush.

This morning I watched as a Chipping Sparrow hopped to the top of a tall stem of grass on the side of the road, held on while the stem bent down to the ground, then stood on the stem and ate the seeds in its top. This may be common behavior, but I had never seen it before, and found it both interesting and entertaining. Feeding in a spot where there were many tall grasses that had gone to seed, it hopped again and again to the top of a stem, rode it down to the ground and held it there to eat the seeds.

A Chipping Sparrow is easy to spot by its bright reddish-brown crown. It’s a small, colorful, active bird with brown streaked back, gray breast, a long tail and gray rump, and a black line through the eye. Chipping Sparrows are common in our neighborhood year-round, but in the fall and winter months their numbers here increase as more migrate in for the season, forming flocks of several dozen and foraging together for food. They often spray up in flight like sparks from a roadside or a yard, when startled, into nearby bushes and low limbs of trees.

They feed on the ground or in low vegetation, usually scratching up seeds, small fruits and small bugs, and grass seeds are a favorite. This Chipping Sparrow appeared to be alone though there probably were others nearby.

“Even though common and abundant, the Chipping Sparrow is surprisingly under-studied,” notes the species account in Birds of North America Online.*

*Chipping Sparrows are known as partial migrants. Some populations do not migrate, while others move various distances. The species account notes that there’s still a lot that’s not known about Chipping Sparrow migration, and more data and studies are needed for all aspects of their seasonal movements. Alex L. Middleton. 1998. Chipping Sparrow (Spizella passserina), The Birds of North America Online (A. Poole, Ed.) Ithaca: Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Late this morning birds were so active that I counted 16 species even before leaving our own front yard for a walk. It was a warm, sunny day with fall colors all around. The first highlight was a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker flying from tree to tree and testing the trunks and large branches – in pecan trees, not the oaks. It was the first I’ve seen here this season, a juvenile, with all its markings muted, brownish with blurred white barring on the back, and a thick white stripe down the wing, and no red showing in crown or throat.

Others birds in the yard included several Mourning Doves under the feeder, Red-bellied Woodpecker, Downy Woodpecker, an Eastern Phoebe calling tsup, Blue Jay, American Crow, Carolina Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Wren, a Ruby-crowned Kinglet singing again, in the wax myrtles, Eastern Bluebird, Northern Mockingbird, several Yellow-rumped Warblers flying in and out of the river birches, Eastern Towhee, and Northern Cardinal.

In another part of the neighborhood, several minutes later, two White-throated Sparrows were foraging in rough weedy grass and scrubby privet along the side of the road. For several days I’ve been hearing the tsseeet calls of White-throated Sparrows, but this is the first time I’ve seen them this season. These two were quiet, and appeared to be juveniles, their colors and markings less crisp and well-defined than an adult – plump brown-streaked sparrows, with striped crown and an indistinct white throat – but they weren’t skittish, and let me get quite close and watch them for several minutes. Further up the road, a few high, sweet, whistled notes rose from the tall grass and shrubs of a meadow-like yard, a partial song from another White-throated Sparrow. It’s good to have them back.

An even greater surprise was a Great Blue Heron that flew up from the old field along the highway and out across the power cut. I see one here occasionally, though not often, usually flying over.

A Hairy Woodpecker gave several sharp, emphatic peenk calls in the woods. Several Turkey Vultures and one Red-shouldered Hawk soared; a Pileated Woodpecker, Brown-headed Nuthatch and three or four Northern Flickers called; a House Finch sang, and two Chipping Sparrows flew up into low branches from a grassy yard.

Much later in the day, after the morning of meteors – early afternoon, under a sunny, cloudless blue sky, with a light breeze and fall colors spreading quickly now – Golden-crowned Kinglets were calling high, elusive ti-ti-ti in trees all around the back yard, but I still could not manage to see even one among the brown, orange and green leaves of the oaks, or even in the pines.

An orange and black butterfly with white spots flew into the butterfly bush beside the deck and stayed for several minutes. It was a Painted Lady – a medium-size deep-orange butterfly with black spots and other black markings, and black upper wing-tips with bright white spots.

A Painted Lady is one of the most widespread butterflies in the world, but I am sorry to say that I seldom notice one – I’m sure that’s purely because I am not observant enough, and haven’t taken the time to become familiar with them. One of the reasons it is so widespread is that its preferred host plant is thistle, which grows almost all over the world. Though Monarch butterflies are best known for their migrations, Painted Ladies also migrate in large numbers and for great distances – and in some cases, the nature and extent of their migrations remain unknown.

A recent study of Painted Lady migration in the United Kingdom has solved a long-standing mystery about where they go each autumn there. The butterflies travel from Africa to the Arctic, making a 9,000-mile round trip, not by individual butterflies going the whole distance, but in a series of steps that takes up to six generations.*

The Red Admiral butterfly (Vanessa atalanta) I saw here just a few days ago is a close relative of Painted Ladies (Vanessa cardui), and they also migrate, sometimes in spectacular numbers.

In trying to learn more about Painted Ladies and their migrations, I soon began to appreciate how much about butterflies – even the most common – I do not know, and realized that it would be easy to get lost for days, following a kaleidoscopic trail of more and more information – and more and more questions. These small, colorful parts of the natural world that we take so much for granted are full of intricate mysteries.

*Butterfly Conservation.

At 5:00 am this morning, we pulled chairs up to the top of our driveway and sat down under a starry sky to watch for meteors – finding a spot where large shrubs mostly screened the outside lights of two houses on our street. The Orionid Meteor Shower, produced by a stream of dust left over from the tail of Halley’s comet, was expected to be at its most visible about two hours before sunrise this morning.

We bundled up – it was cold, though not freezing. From where we sat, we looked up and had a sweeping view of the constellation Orion, spread across the southern sky above us – right above our house – and millions of stars all around. The starry sky was beautiful, the cold air crisp, and a few minutes after we sat down, two Barred Owls began hooting deep, resonant Who-cooks-for-you; who-cooks-for-you-awwwwl. Several times they hooted back and forth, from behind us, not too far away, maybe from a large Red Oak at the corner, at least that’s what I guessed. All in all, with the starry sky and the Barred Owls calling, it was well worth getting up for – even though we saw very few meteors.

In back of us as we sat, were the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper and the North Star. Above us in the South, Orion, and a little to the left, I think, was Sirius, the bright star in the constellation Canus Major. There were other constellations and many bright stars – later I looked them up and tried to learn more about what we had seen. At the time, we just watched. One very large, spectacular meteor streaked down, a silvery ball of light with a tail, coming as if from the back of Orion’s belt; and at least five much smaller, fainter meteors appeared, quick streaks of light, distinct but not so big and bright.

Many times we both thought we might have seen a meteor – a very faint streak, but so faint it could have been wishful thinking. I think our view of the sky, though it looked sparkling and star-filled and clear, is obscured by ambient light from all directions now – a busy highway only a mile away, a large gas station only a little further, and homes and businesses in all directions whose lights stay on all night. Though their lights are not directly visible to us, I’m sure they make many stars – and meteors – invisible, and that’s too bad. In the north, the lights of Athens, a few miles away, give the night sky a glow. Only a decade ago, when we first moved here, the sky was noticeably darker. We could see the Milky Way then, and many more stars. But it’s hard to tell now – it’s hard to see what you can’t see, what you’re missing.

On a cool, gray, cloudy day birds seemed mostly quiet – though maybe it was only that it was a busy day for me, with not much time to spend outside. An Eastern Bluebird sang from the top of a maple tree whose leaves were faded yellow and almost gone. Below it, among the few remaining leaves, were two Yellow-rumped Warblers – the first of the season here. The first one I saw looked pale and drab gray-brown, in winter plumage, with muted streaks of gray and smudges of yellow on the sides – and the yellow rump. The other appeared to be still at least partly in summer plumage, much darker, with some markings almost black, bright white, and yellow. They flew with dry, flat calls of tchek.