Birding Notes

This morning – a warm, sunny, blue-sky day, with cicadas and grasshoppers singing loudly – an Eastern Wood-Pewee sang a clear, dreamy puh-wee from the branch of a pecan tree on the edge of a thicket. It’s the first one I’ve heard this season. It sang several times as I watched – flying off to catch an insect and returning to the same branch.

A small, neat gray flycatcher, an Eastern Wood-Pewee looks pale on the throat and around the neck, has dark gray wings with two white wing-bars; a dark, slightly crested head and sometimes a very faint eye-ring. I wasn’t close enough to see an eye-ring, but the song and the flycatcher’s neat, crisp shape were both familiar, and its way of flying is distinctive, too – frequent flights from a branch to catch an insect, focused, quick and efficient, somewhat in contrast to the languid song.

Eastern Wood-Pewees used to be here around our neighborhood all summer, and their sweetly whistled, rising and falling songs – pee-a-weeee; wheeee-oo – were among the most characteristic sounds of summer. Unfortunately, the past few years I’ve heard them only in migration, though during the fall, especially, we usually are lucky enough to hear and see them for three or four weeks, as they pass through. Their fall puh-weee, sung by migrants, is different from the summer song, but the quality is so much the same it’s not hard to recognize the singer.

“Although still considered common in most of its range, this species declined significantly on its breeding grounds over the last 25 years,” says the species account in Birds of America Online, “perhaps in part because of heavy browsing of forests by white-tailed deer.”

In the woods around our neighborhood, the browsing of white-tailed deer has almost completely eliminated the usual vegetation that makes up the understory of the forest, so this change may well be at least one of the reasons Wood-Pewees are missing here in the summers now.

*John P. McCarty. 1996. Eastern Wood-Pewee (Contopus virens), The Birds of North America Online (A. Poole, Ed.) Ithaca: Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

This morning dawned beautiful, clear, sunny and cool, in the sixties for the first time in a long while, and birds seemed more vocal than for the past few days, maybe welcoming the weather, too. The quiet’s not unusual for August, with the songs of cicadas, grasshoppers and other insects often drowning out most other sounds. Many mornings lately, I could stand on the porch and hear only one bird or two, at most. Very, very quiet. But this morning, even before leaving our own front yard, I heard an Eastern Bluebird’s blurry call, the song of a Carolina Wren, an Eastern Towhee, a Red-eyed Vireo’s song, the caw of a Crow, the squawk of a Blue Jay (and another Blue Jay doing a pretty good imitation of a Red-shouldered Hawk). American Goldfinch called as they flew over, and a Red-bellied Woodpecker rattled.

On the edge of a neighbor’s yard, four Chipping Sparrows flew up from the grass into a small tree, their bright reddish-brown crowns glowing. A Northern Cardinal ducked into the dark green depths of a Leyland cypress.

For most of a walk through the neighborhood, the usual suspects were around, widely scattered – the spee calls of a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, the WHEET-sit of an Acadian Flycatcher, a Downy Woodpecker’s silvery rattle, the soft pi-tuk calls of one Summer Tanager; the chatter and songs of Tufted Titmice, Carolina Chickadees and Carolina Wrens; a scattering of quiet American Robins, the coo of Mourning Doves, several quiet but active Northern Mockingbirds, and the song of one White-breasted Nuthatch. A Red-shouldered Hawk sailed silently, suddenly just over the treetops ahead of me, and disappeared into the woods. The long, dry, percussive call of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo came from very far away.

In the old field, the vines of small deep-red blooming morning glories have begun to twist and spread through the tall grasses and other weeds near the roadside. A Red-tailed Hawk sat on the top of a pole. A Gray Catbird gave a raspy mew from a perch on the edge of a ragged privet thicket, well camouflaged, a dark-gray shadow of a bird among dull-green leaves.

As I walked along the field toward its southern end, two tiny field mice ran out of the grass and weeds onto the open pavement in front of me, pretty close, and froze there. They were so very small, barely an inch or two long each, plus thread-thin tail, light brown and frail looking – they looked like little cartoon mice. I stood very still for several seconds, then stomped a foot lightly – and they both scurried off into the weeds again.

The sky was beautiful, blue and all but empty, with one Turkey Vulture the only soaring bird until I was almost back home, when two Mississippi Kites appeared, dark slivers of wings, soaring high in the southeast, and soon drifting away, out of sight.

At 7:00 this morning, when I stepped outside, our yard and street were shrouded in a warm gray fog. Two Red-eyed Vireos sang from different directions in the woods nearby. After listening for a minute or two, I started down the steps and ran face-first into a spider web strung between the two big shrubs on either side of the porch. Combing sticky strands of silk away from my eyes and nose and hair, I walked on up the driveway, without binoculars today, and ducked under the heavy, wet, low-hanging branches of crape myrtles, the ground and pavement beneath them scattered with white petals, washed down by yesterday’s rain. The sun was up, but not yet visible behind the fog and clouds.

An Eastern Phoebe sang, an Eastern Towhee called, Northern Cardinals peeped. Crows strutted around grassy yards and cawed and croaked. Several Eastern Bluebirds sang – four perched in the bare top branches of one pecan tree, waiting to welcome the sun. An Acadian Flycatcher sang a sharp WHEET-sit from the woods along a creek. A Blue-gray Gnatcatcher called its raspy spee from the thickets of trees and vines around a corner where they usually are, and a Great Crested Flycatcher called whreep from a big Red Oak.

The morning seemed very quiet, no sounds of traffic or people, maybe muffled by the fog, with my own footsteps sounding on the pavement. Crickets chirped. A lone cicada buzzed as it flew a long distance from tree to tree – it looked more like a hurtle than a flight, a desperate plunge from one spot to another.

Up a steep hill in a wooded stretch, Tufted Titmice fussed their day-day-day; Carolina Chickadees sang a more relaxed fee-bee, fee-bay. A Downy Woodpecker whinnied. A Carolina Wren sang – and another sang in response. Several Carolina Wrens trilled, burbled and buzzed. At this time of year they always seem to become more vocal, as other birds become more quiet, and their songs on a morning like this are especially musical, expressive and welcome.  Two Brown-headed Nuthatches chattered high in some pines. One White-breasted Nuthatch called a nasal awnk-awnk from further away. An American Goldfinch called as it flew over.

A Red-bellied Woodpecker rattled and chucked. A Summer Tanager called pik-a-tuk from the leaves of a tall tulip poplar. Mourning Doves cooed. A Northern Flicker whistled a loud kleer! At the crest of the hill, several Crows noisily cawed and croaked and flew from spot to spot among some trees. I couldn’t find a hawk, but suspect there might have been one hidden there. A quiet Northern Mockingbird perched in its usual large, rambling bush along a wooden fence, where I’m pretty sure a pair of Mockingbirds has had a nest. A Chipping Sparrow trilled a long, level summer song from a low branch of a tree in a large yard. Several American Robins were scattered out in the grass below.

Just outside our subdivision, an Indigo Bunting chanted its sweet-sweet, chew-chew, sweet-sweet from the top of a dead tree on the edge of the power cut that runs through the old field. I could barely see it, and not its color at all – just a tiny dark dot. Eastern Towhees called chur-whee. A White-eyed Vireo sang. Mockingbirds and Mourning Doves perched on the wires. Though often there’s a Red-tailed Hawk sitting on one of the poles overlooking the highway below, the poles were all empty this morning. Fog hung over the highway, and cars and trucks streamed by with headlights shining.

Late in the morning the day became sunny and clear, with a bright blue sky and rain-green trees. Ruby-throated Hummingbirds came often to the feeder that hangs from the deck out back.

Eastern Bluebirds are among the least hidden and most flashy, colorful, active birds right now – they seem to be everywhere, all through the neighborhood. In the early mornings, several perch in the bare branches that stick up from the tops of pecan trees, facing the sun, and sing their chorry, chorry songs. Several days ago, on a warm early morning after an overnight rain, I passed many Bluebirds hawking insects in the air, almost hovering over the road and around treeetops and over grassy areas, catching insects in flight. The air was full of tiny, swarming insects. One caught in my throat, and after that I tried to keep my mouth closed, but the Bluebirds looked like they were enjoying an easy feast – or maybe it was just a snack.

As July comes to an end, with hot sunny days, broken often by afternoon thunderstorms and soaking rain, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds come and go from the feeder on our back deck all day, at least one male and three or four females or juveniles, maybe more, in constant humming, zipping, swinging motion except when perched in the limbs of the nearby oaks or resting briefly on the feeder, in uncontested moments, to sip.

An Indigo Bunting and White-eyed Vireo still sing in the Old Field, but Mockingbirds and Brown Thrashers are quiet now – or at least not singing. Cicadas sing loudly all day, and Katydids all night.

When I first stepped outside early on a warm, humid Sunday morning in late July, the only sounds were the background buzzing and chirping of insects. Not a single song or call of a bird. The woods and yard seemed very quiet. It was about 15 minutes after sunrise, the sky a pale silk-blue, with rumpled morning clouds spread across the east and a red-gold sun behind a screen of trees. Then crows cawed in the distance. An Eastern Towhee called to-wheee.

As I walked down the street, a Northern Cardinal fled without a peep into a bush. An Eastern Phoebe hunted from low branches of oaks. In the leaves of two persimmon trees at the first corner, several small birds rustled around, among them two tiny, silvery Blue-gray Gnatcatchers, flashing the white sides of their tails.

And that’s the way it was – though the morning seemed so quiet on the surface, all along the way as I walked, birds appeared in the grass and shrubs and trees, preening, hunting, foraging, calling in chips and peeps, mostly quiet but a few singing here and there. And for every one I saw or heard, I’m sure I walked past many more without ever knowing they were there – like a Red-shouldered Hawk perched low in an oak in a wooded yard. I wouldn’t have seen it if something hadn’t caused it to fly, low across the road in front of me and into another stand of trees, a brief but clear view of broad dark-brown wings and back checkered with white, ruddy breast and banded tail, before it disappeared into the shadows of leaves again.

A White-breasted Nuthatch called a nasal awnk-awnk-awnk, and two Brown-headed Nuthatches chattered in some pines. A Red-bellied Woodpecker rattled. A Downy Woodpecker gave a bright whinny from the top of a tree. A Carolina Wren sang jubilee-jubilee-jubilee, and another wren answered with a trill. A Mourning Dove cooed.

From the highest part of a tall tulip poplar tree came the ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-cawp-cawp-cawp of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo, a dry, exotic call that cracked the hazy quiet of the morning like a shell. I could see the dense green leaves shudder as it moved, but could not see the Cuckoo. A tall, slender, elegant bird with creamy-white breast, smooth brown back, down-curved bill, and long dramatically spotted black and white tail, the Cuckoo is a beautiful example of how much stays usually hidden behind the screen of the summer woods.

An Acadian Flycatcher called a sharp, crisp whit-seeet from down in the woods along a creek, the kind of sound you wouldn’t notice unless listening for it. It was too far away to see – though if I did walk into the woods and down toward the creek, it probably wouldn’t be hard to find. A small jewel of a bird, greenish-gray, with a slightly crested head, pale breast, white wing bars and a thin white ring around the eye, it sits in low branches in the lowland along a creek and gives its quick call often. Because they usually stay secluded in the woods, Acadian Flycatchers are not often seen, but they’re not really shy. Often when I walk near a creek an Acadian Flycatcher comes around to check me out, seeming as curious about me as I am about it.

Further on, two Summer Tanagers called back and forth to each other from opposite sides of the road, on either side of me, soft, repeated calls of pi-tuk, pi-tuk, as they moved through the trees. Then one of them came out into view near the top of a pine, a male, rose-red all over, with a large, heavy bill, and a quizzical tilt to his head as he looked around.

In the rather tall green grass of a yard, lush from a good bit of rain this month, four Common Grackles, two Starlings, five Robins, two Mourning Doves and two Northern Flickers were foraging, widely scattered and almost hidden in the overgrown grass. The Flickers were especially nice to see – recently I’ve been hearing their kleer calls and long, trumpeted rattles more often than earlier in the summer. In the deep grass, I could barely see the round, handsome gray head of each, brown back barred with black, and a red crescent on the nape of one.

Though early July has been very hot, and birds have seemed relatively quiet on most days, today I kept an informal count for the first time in a while, and was surprised to find at the end of the day a total of 47 species. Most of these are species I usually hear or see, and would expect to find here on an ordinary summer day, not unusual sightings.

The Cooper’s Hawk is an exception. I have seen them only a few times this summer, including this morning, when a juvenile flew out of a low tree into a bush close to a house, just as I was walking past. The hawk stayed for several seconds, standing on the ground, mostly hidden in the bush but with its tail sticking out. Then it backed out, looked around and flew. It did not seem to be carrying anything.

Most of the species listed below I saw or heard along a walk through our neighborhood early this morning. Both Black and Turkey Vultures I did not see until later in the day, and though one Ruby-throated Hummingbird did zip past as I was walking, I saw them far more often at home during the rest of the day, coming and going frequently from the feeder on our back deck.

Among our most interesting summer birds are Red-shouldered Hawks – their kee-yer calls are frequently heard, and I’ve often been surprised by the sudden quiet rush of their wings as one flies suddenly from a perch low in a wooded area as I walk by; Yellow-billed Cuckoo, whose dry, echoing cawp-cawp-cawp calls are one of our most characteristic summer sounds; Acadian Flycatcher, calling a crisp wheet-sit from down around a creek; Great Crested Flycatcher – a pair continues to come to sunbathe on our back deck most days; White-eyed Vireo, its percussive chick-a-perioo-chick is one of the most consistent songs in the dense, weedy thickets of the old field; Wood Thrush, singing so very beautifully from a low, wooded area near the creek; Gray Catbird – this morning one was singing a hesitant and strangely pretty series of gurgling phrases and whistles from somewhere in a large, bushy stand of shrubs at the head of a driveway.

Black-and-white Warblers sang this morning in at least three different places, their high, sweet weesa-weesa-weesa. One or two sang here all through the month of May, then I didn’t hear or see one again until July 6 – and they’ve been singing again each day since then. Louisiana Waterthrush whistle their anthems early in the morning near the creek; a Blue Grosbeak – though I rarely hear or see one in the old field along the highway this summer, there’s one that sings in a large, meadow-like yard in the neighborhood with lots of shrubs, widely-spaced trees and tall grasses. And an Indigo Bunting sits almost every morning in the top of a tree or tall shrub in the old field, a tiny dot of deep, intense blue, chanting sweet-sweet, chew-chew, sweet-sweet against a noisy background of highway traffic.

The following is a very informal list, and I may well have missed some species, but these are the ones I have seen or heard most days in early July (plus the Cooper’s Hawk).

Black Vulture

Turkey Vulture

Red-shouldered Hawk

Red-tailed Hawk

Cooper’s Hawk

Mourning Dove

Yellow-billed Cuckoo

Chimney Swift

Ruby-throated Hummingbird

Red-bellied Woodpecker

Downy Woodpecker

Northern Flicker

Pileated Woodpecker

Acadian Flycatcher

Eastern Phoebe

Great Crested Flycatcher

White-eyed Vireo

Red-eyed Vireo

Blue Jay

American Crow

Barn Swallow

Carolina Chickadee

Tufted Titmouse

Brown-headed Nuthatch

White-breasted Nuthatch

Carolina Wren

House Wren

Blue-gray Gnatcatcher

Eastern Bluebird

Wood Thrush

American Robin

Gray Catbird

Northern Mockingbird

Brown Thrasher

European Starling

Pine Warbler

Black-and-white Warbler

Louisiana Waterthrush

Summer Tanager

Scarlet Tanager

Eastern Towhee

Chipping Sparrow

Northern Cardinal

Blue Grosbeak

Indigo Bunting

House Finch

American Goldfinch

As in much of the country, late June and early July here have brought one of the worst heat waves I can remember, with temperatures reaching 107 and 108 degrees for three days in a row, and several other days at or near 100. While these days have brought us some of the hottest temperatures ever recorded here, they also have brought one of the coolest sounds of summer. Down in the woods along a creek, usually in a spot not far from the road, well shaded and screened by green leaves, a Wood Thrush sings.

It’s been singing almost every morning since the last week in June, around 7:00 or 7:30 when I walk by. The song sounds impossibly lovely. Clear, fluted, echoing notes, tut-tut-eee-oh-lay, tut-tut-eee-ooh-zeeee. For several minutes each morning, I stop and listen. With the sun already burning in a hot blue sky, and the early morning air heavy and oppressive, the song drifts up from the woods like a chilled fresh breeze.

Late this morning four Black Vultures circled and climbed in a hot blue, cloudless sky, the only soaring birds in sight. Eastern Bluebirds hunted from low branches in shady yards, with House Finches, Chipping Sparrows, American Robins and an Eastern Phoebe here and there. Mourning Doves cooed. Few birds were singing – Northern Mockingbird, Brown Thrasher, Northern Cardinal – and a Scarlet Tanager in the sweet gum and tulip poplar treetops of the wooded area where it usually can be found.

The temperature was rising toward a late afternoon high of 100 degrees, on the first day of an amazing heat wave here. The forecast for the next three days is for a high of 106 tomorrow, 107 on Saturday, and 104 on Sunday. So early mornings will be the only reasonable time to be outside. The extreme heat means a difficult time for birds as well as for trees and all vegetation and wildlife. I try to keep a bird bath in the front yard and two in the back yard rinsed out and refilled a couple of times a day, hoping that will at least help some. They’ve all stayed pretty busy, even before this latest blast of heat.

About a mile away from our house, the old field just outside our subdivision looks drab and dry and withered already, with no obvious source of water for the many birds and other wildlife that live there – though there are creeks and a pond not too far away. The traffic noise from Highway 441, on the other side of the field, seemed particularly loud and rough this morning, but a White-eyed Vireo sang undaunted from somewhere down in the thickets. And I could hear the song of a Blue Grosbeak from the far north end of the field. As I walked in that direction, toward the dead-end of the road, an Indigo Bunting chanted along the opposite side in an old oak grove, unfortunately often trashed and rutted with abuse, but still the home of a dozen or more big, grand old oaks.

The Blue Grosbeak seemed to be singing from across the highway beyond the field, so I scanned the trees – and to my surprise, found it, a small dark shape that looked more gray than blue in the hazy distance, in the top of a tall, scruffy, thin-leafed tree that rose above the pines around it. It faced out over the highway from a spot that looked far from inviting, but the richly warbled song of this little bird somehow rose above the constant noise of big trucks, SUVs, pickups and cars. Though I was too far away to see the shimmering, intense blue of its plumage, the distinctive shape of the Blue Grosbeak was clear – the slightly crested head and glint of its silver beak in the sun, the way it switched its long tail, and the burnt sienna of its wing bars – and I could see it lift its head and sing.

About 10:30 this morning, against a loose carpet of white quilted clouds in a hot blue sky, a Mississippi Kite appeared over our neighborhood. Fairly low at first, it slowly, steadily circled and climbed higher.

I could not see the white head or gray color in its plumage, because the sun was high and directly behind it almost all of the time, but the sleek, dark shape, with long slender wings, round head and rather long, fan-shaped tail were clear. It was very beautiful to watch, flying so easily and gracefully. It never flapped while I watched, but sailed on open wings, rising higher and higher until it was only a speck against the cottony clouds.

Most early evenings, around 6:00-7:00 pm, we sit for a while on the deck, in the shade of the oaks, enjoying the end of the day. In truth, there’s still a lot more day to come – the sun doesn’t go down until about 8:45 right now, and even after it does, the orange light of the long summer twilight lingers until 9:30 or later, with fireflies flashing and bats flying.

But earlier in the evening, well before sunset, seems to be a busy time for birds. A Ruby-throated Hummingbird male and female come to the feeder hanging from the deck (as they do all day long – the male coming much more often than the female). And a moat of water in the middle of the feeder, meant to keep ants away, is a popular watering hole for lots of small birds.

Near the feeder, we also keep a shallow clay saucer filled with water on the corner of the deck rail under a hanging fern. At this time of day Tufted Titmice, Carolina Chickadees, American Goldfinch and Eastern Bluebirds come to drink and to bathe, and sometimes an Eastern Phoebe. It’s a sweet and peaceful feeling to sit quietly nearby while they come, chattering, fluttering their wings and splashing – then retreating to the branches of the oaks to preen and dry off. A pair of American Goldfinches that usually arrive together are especially fun to watch, the male bright lemon-yellow and black, the female more subdued.

A Great Crested Flycatcher, Red-bellied Woodpecker, Downy Woodpecker and Carolina Wrens often are in trees around the edge of the back yard, too, with a Red-eyed Vireo singing in the woods, or sometimes making its whining nyanh calls. Most evenings we hear at least one or two echoing calls from a Yellow-billed Cuckoo, sometimes fairly nearby. Once we caught just a glimpse of it as it flew across the back yard from tree to tree, a fairly good-size, brownish bird with a flash of white and a very long tail. We did not see its markings well – not even the long spotted tail – but only a few seconds after it flew by, it gave a good, long, loud ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-cawwp-cawp-cawp call.

This evening, as three or four Titmice, a Chickadee and a Goldfinch pair all were debating in chirps and chips whether or not it was safe to come for water with us sitting so nearby – as they always seem to do for several minutes before they finally do – a pair of Brown-headed Nuthatches suddenly flew in together, making their soft, low, short calls to each other as they paused briefly in the branches of the oak, then came immediately down to the hummingbird feeder, and took turns hanging upside down to drink from the moat. When both had taken several sips, they flew away to a large pine that stands at the corner of the back yard, where they stayed for several minutes more.

The Nuthatches don’t come as often as the other birds, but when they do, they don’t waste time sitting around, fidgeting and pondering whether to come or not. They just come directly to the feeder, drink, and fly away again, quite boldly.