Birding Notes

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.

Late in the afternoon, I heard the high, thin ti-ti-ti calls of a Golden-crowned Kinglet through my open office windows. I went downstairs and out – and could still hear the calls. They were very hard to see among the yellow and brown leaves of a sweet gum and the green of an oak beside it, two tiny, round, quickly moving gray birds with bold black and white striped faces – I could not see a golden crown. Not a very good view, but enough, with the calls – so both kinglets have returned today, the first of the season. In the trees with them were also several Tufted Titmice, Carolina Chickadees, a Carolina Wren, Red-bellied Woodpecker, Downy Woodpecker, and somewhere nearby an Eastern Bluebird sang.

Around noon today, a brightly colored butterfly outside the kitchen window caught my eye – a Red Admiral. Though they’re widespread and considered common, I haven’t seen them often here. It flew to a dry flower-head on a potted hydrangea on the deck, and stayed there long enough for me to enjoy a nice close view. Its coloring is dramatic – an uneven band of red-orange marks each upper wing, and the lower wings are edged in the same shade of red-orange. Several large and small white spots dot the upper wing tips, with a very thin edging of white all around the delicately scalloped edges of the wings. The under side of the wings looked more subdued, or muted, with red spots in a row and some faint blue showing among them.

Late this morning a familiar, stuttering jidit-jidit call announced the arrival of the first of our winter birds to return – a Ruby-crowned Kinglet. A tiny little gray bird with a bright eye ring and white wing bars, it flitted in the branches of a small pecan tree growing in the middle of a ring of thick juniper out in the middle of our cul de sac.

It flew to the trees in our yard, disappearing into the leaves of some oaks, and from there – it sang, a rapid, lively song that begins with three very high, sharp whistles, then three or four tur-tur-turs and then a tumbling series of musical notes. This is one of the few times I’ve noticed a Ruby-crowned Kinglet singing in the fall, though we hear them often before they leave each spring. It seemed to sing a little more quietly than in the spring, not quite so exuberant, but spritely.

It’s been a sunny, warm, beautiful day, though even now, in mid October, there’s only the beginning of fall color in the foliage. Mostly the leaves are still green all around, though beginning to fade and change. Maples show patches and edges of coral or dark rose-red; our three river birches still hold an unusual number of leaves – faded to yellow and brown, they are thin and showering off a few at a time, but still enough to shimmer in a breeze. Pecan trees – never colorful – have begun to wither and shed a few leaves, but not many yet. Even the water oaks show only speckles of orange and brown among the faded green, and the white oaks still hang heavy with green, though acorns have begun to fall, small ones peppering down from the water oaks, and big heavy ones thumping down from the white oaks. Sweet gums – mostly yellow, yellow-brown and some wine-red – seem to be the most colorful trees so far, and their starry leaves are scattered on the ground.

Early this morning at least two Ruby-throated Hummingbirds were still coming to the feeder on our back deck. I watched them for a few minutes, coming and going between the feeder and nearby oaks, and wondered if they might leave tonight with the cold front now moving through. We’ve had a lot of fun watching hummingbirds all summer, beginning with the first bright-throated male that appeared in early April and came alone for several days before a female joined him later in the month. We noticed that the male almost always hovered at the feeder, staying on guard; when the female came, she perched to sip. Through the summer, males, females and then juveniles came to the feeder frequently, all day every day; and now the last few migrants are moving through.

Because the feeder hangs from the deck not far from our kitchen windows, we’ve seen them often, and I hear their twittering through my open office windows. They’ve been a regular part of our daily lives. When we had lunch on the deck or sat outside in long, warm, lingering summer twilights, the hummingbirds would come and go from the feeder, sometimes zipping over to hover very close in front of one of us, to check us out, then zip away; or visit some of the flowering potted plants, while titmice, chickadees and nuthatches also took advantage of water in the small moat in the middle of the hummingbird feeder. We’re going to miss them when they’re all gone for the year.

By late afternoon the day had become cloudy, gray and cool, with high, thick clouds and moody, pearl-gray autumn light. Birds were mostly quiet – the usual Chickadees, Titmice, Downy and Red-bellied Woodpeckers, a Northern Flicker’s kleer, Eastern Towhees, Blue Jays, American Crows – and a Northern Mockingbird sang from the top of a small tree along a wooden fence. A Brown-headed Nuthatch or two chattered their squeaky-dee calls in some pines, and – the most surprising event of the day – I heard the clear and repeated ank-ank calls of a Red-breasted Nuthatch. They came from a wooded area in back of a large yard, and weren’t close enough even to try to see, but the calls were repeated several times. I have noticed several reports of Red-breasted Nuthatches in the area recently, so maybe it’s going to be a good year for them here.

As I neared the end of a walk through the neighborhood, coming up the last hill toward our cul de sac, a Cooper’s Hawk suddenly flew low from trees in a yard across the road ahead of me, and swiftly disappeared into a bank of wax myrtles and Leyland cypress trees.  It was a brief, but dramatic view of a medium-size, sturdy gray hawk with broad wings, long, slender, banded tail, and what appeared to be a white patch at the base of the tail, but was – I think – white feathers from below the tail ruffled up and over.

A nice way to end the day.

On a warm sunny morning, a female Scarlet Tanager sat deep in the middle of a large dogwood tree, all but hidden among the drooping, smoky-red leaves, placidly eating one red berry after another. I only saw her because the movement of a Northern Mockingbird in the same dogwood drew my attention to the spot. But then, I could see her fairly well for several minutes, and watched as she ate berries, not moving from that choice position in the tree. She was deep, dull olive-yellow all over, with wings slightly darker, and a stout, pointed bill. A thin, faint ring around the dark eye gave her a wide-eyed, watchful look.

Later in the day, early afternoon, a Black-throated Green Warbler among the leaves of white oaks in the back yard was much harder to see. Never still for a moment, it took longer to be sure about – a small bird, moving quickly, gleaning insects from the leaves. Watching it was like putting together the pieces of a puzzle – a solid black throat that spread down in a bib; a very white belly, bold black-streaked sides, and flashes of a bright yellow face with olive markings.

The song of an Eastern Phoebe began the day at sunrise. An Eastern Towhee called chur-weee, Northern Cardinals peeped, a Red-bellied Woodpecker chuck-chucked, and before too long a Northern Mockingbird began to sing from the top of a young red maple on the edge of our yard, its thick green leaves just beginning to show patches of dark rose-red. Out back, two Ruby-throated Hummingbirds had already begun frequent visits to the feeder, at this time of day not wasting too much time in battles. They seemed almost to take turns – though it wasn’t too much later in the morning before that changed.

The Phoebe’s early song began a day that seemed defined by Phoebes, an abundance of them, all through the neighborhood. I’m not sure there are more of them than usual – we have a good number of Phoebes here year-round. It may be just that they – like Carolina Wrens – have become more vocal and more active lately, while other birds have become more quiet. Some of the Phoebes sang; others called tsup as they flew from spot to spot in the trees, or hunted from low branches, flying down to the ground and back up; and some came together in agitated encounters, erupting in chatter calls.

When I stepped out onto the front porch around ten, a Phoebe perched in the Savannah holly just to the right of the porch. It seemed undisturbed by my arrival and stayed quietly sitting on a branch of the scrawny tree, which has very few leaves because it’s in a spot where it doesn’t get enough sunlight, but it’s loaded with clusters of orange berries. The Phoebe looked soft and pretty, a study in tones of ash-gray, with darker head, pale breast and a faint wash of yellow on the belly.

The shadowy appearance and sibilant songs and calls of the Phoebes – and also their tartly bobbing tails and spirited behavior – reflect the season’s mood, subdued but brisk. The muted colors; pearl-gray, layered clouds; the rustling dry leaves, a hint of wood-smoke in the air, and the crisp, sharp scent of fruit.

Late in the morning, in a sunny, deep blue, cloudless sky, one Turkey Vulture circled low, slowly rising. Several Black Vultures soared and circled much higher, and among them, an Accipiter soared on broad, outspread wings, its long narrow tail looking dark, with a distinct white area glowing between the base of the tail and the body – a Cooper’s Hawk, I think, though it was really too high to tell for sure.

Late on a sunny, quiet morning the green leaves of a small box elder tree rustled with movement, and the sleek face and shape of a Red-eyed Vireo came into view, lit by a ray of sunlight. For three or four minutes, I watched as it moved through the box elder and then into a nearby dogwood, still thick with dusty-red leaves, going in and out of shadow and sunlight, gleaning insects. It was graceful in appearance, with a long, lean figure, smooth, gray-green back and wings, cream-white breast and belly, dark-gray crown edged in black, a white stripe over the eye, and a thin dark line through the eye. The view was not clear enough to see the red of the eye, but I watched as long as I could see the bird, maybe the last Red-eyed Vireo I’ll see until next spring, since they’re all on their way further south, most already gone, leaving for the winter.

The morning was cool, crisp and calm, with a deep blue sky, only a few wispy clouds low in the east, and a few leaves showering down from pecan and sweet gum trees now and then. At first it seemed as if very few birds at all were around, but they were there, unobtrusive and quiet, and I’m sure I missed many more than I saw.

After a few minutes the vireo flew out of the dogwood, across the road and into more trees on the edge of the woods – where a plump Pine Warbler quietly moved through the foliage, also gleaning insects. The warm yellow of its head, face and breast caught the light; its wings looked drab dark gray with blurry white wing bars. It plucked a big fat caterpillar from a leaf and swallowed it in three or four neat, quick snaps.

Further up the hill, in another wooded area, another Pine Warbler sang a loose, musical trill. A Northern Flicker called a beckoning flicka-flicka from a bare branch in the top of a pecan tree. In the grassy yard below, several Eastern Bluebirds, Chipping Sparrows, House Finches, Mourning Doves and at least one more Northern Flicker searched for food in the grass, almost invisible except for their movements. An Eastern Phoebe, faintly yellow on the belly and sides, hunted from low branches on the edge of a driveway.

A Brown Thrasher flushed out from below a row of shrubs and up to the limb of a pecan tree not far above me. There it sat very still, surrounded in leaves and shadows, watching with round amber eye, a picture-perfect view of its red-brown plumage, dark-streaked breast, long tail, and fierce long, curved bill.

A bright orange and black-veined butterfly fluttered past and up toward the treetops, and into the clear blue sky – the first Monarch butterfly I’ve seen this season.

It was a good day for butterflies – within an hour I saw several more Monarchs, mostly in wooded areas and around yards. Over and around the old field flew clear-yellow Cloudless Sulphurs, Sleepy Orange, and a burning orange Gulf Fritillary flashing the big silver spots under its wings – its brilliance never fails to make me catch my breath. They flew over a rough field, power cut and roadside all in brown and fading colors. Spilling up and out from the roadside ditch, the purple, pale pink, blue, magenta and white morning glories remain radiant, as well as hundreds of tiny deep-red morning glories, winding over tangled grasses, foxtails, kudzu, goldenrod; a very few white, yellow and pale purple asters; pokeweed, withering blackberry vines and other weeds. Bitterweed raised its drooping, dark-yellow blooms along the roadside with deep-purple, low-growing stiff verbena and a scattering of sunny dandelions.

A Buckeye Butterfly fluttered from plant to plant along the roadside – soft, deep brown with bands of orange and white, and scalloped white near the wing edges, and several large dark eye spots. It paused often with wings spread, long enough for me to focus through binoculars for a few moments – then flew up high. As I tried to follow it with binoculars – a hopeless thing – I saw what appeared to be a small, compact raptor, soaring very high, silvery and ethereal. It was so far away I wouldn’t have seen it at all without binoculars, so it was just by chance, and even with them it was impossible to identify – broad wings, short tail, but hawk-like, not a vulture. But much too far away to do any more than guess, and wonder.