Birding Notes

As I was cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast this morning, I stopped to watch through the kitchen window as several birds came to our small back deck. A Tufted Titmouse, a bright red Northern Cardinal, a Carolina Wren – and three Yellow-rumped Warblers. They checked out the corners and crevices of the deck flooring, rails, edges around the screened porch and the porch roof. I don’t know what, if anything, they found. We used to have a lot more spiders and insects, even in winter, that might hide out in corners. But the past few years we’ve seen fewer and fewer spiders and insects of any kind – and I do worry that birds are not able to find enough food. In fact, I’m almost certain this scarcity must take a toll.

The Yellow-rumped Warblers were especially sweet, and they came so close to the window that I enjoyed a beautiful and rare close-up view of these little gray-brown birds, so that each one came so clearly to life I could almost feel what it would be like to touch them. In their subdued winter plumage, they are small gray-brown songbirds with streaks on the breast and sides, smudges of yellow under the wings, and of course, a butter-yellow rump.  

Most of the time they appear as almost anonymous “little gray birds” flitting around the trees, so it’s special to have a chance to see them so close-up and appreciate the fine and even intricate details of their winter feathers that might look very plain from a distance.

Late on a cold, clear, softly sunny morning, a scattering of birds moved around our front yard. Northern Cardinals, White-throated Sparrows and two Dark-eyed Juncos scratched up leaves and foraged for seeds. There was a lot of rustling in dry leaves under the shrubs, and I caught glimpses of Eastern Towhees, a Carolina Wren, a Brown Thrasher. Two Chipping Sparrows sat on one feeder as they so often do, just sitting for long periods of time, eating. 

A Ruby-crowned Kinglet called jidit-jidit as it moved through the wax myrtles and into a Savannah holly. A few Yellow-rumped Warblers scattered chip calls as they flew from branch to branch in the bare-limbed oaks and pecan trees. A Downy Woodpecker whinnied and explored the bark of a tree near the feeders. Both Brown-headed Nuthatch and White-breasted Nuthatch called from somewhere nearby, but neither came close enough to see.

A Yellow-bellied Sapsucker flew to the middle of a pecan tree, and paused just briefly in a spot where the sun lit it beautifully, showing a gleaming crimson throat and crown and black-and-white striped face, before it flew away again.

As I walked to the bottom of our driveway I heard the now-familiar rattle of a Red-headed Woodpecker. I have continued to hear it almost any day when I’m outside, though in this busy holiday season, that hasn’t been as often as I’d like. It only took a minute to spot it on a dead standing tree just below the driveway. The snag is broken off at the top and has lost about half of its bark, but it is still fairly tall, and stands among several living oaks. The woodpecker stayed on this snag for several minutes, moving from spot to spot, and as I watched, I realized that it showed quite a bit of red on its head, though still mixed with brown. Its large white wing panels were marked with broken black bars. 

The brown heads of juvenile Red-headed Woodpeckers gradually turn red during their first winters, and this one seems to be turning red fairly early in the season. 

I left the woodpecker still working on the standing remnant of a dead tree and walked through the neighborhood, and when I returned, I found it in the same area, and watched it fly several times to other trees, but return each time to the dead tree, which must have offered some good places to find and store food. 

This morning was a glorious, spirit-lifting day. A gentle blue December sky with long, trailing fingers of clouds here and there, high and thin. The temperature was in the upper 30s, with a crisp northwest breeze. And quite a lot of bird activity.

When I first stepped out onto the front porch, several White-throated Sparrows, two Northern Cardinals and two Dark-eyed Juncos were searching the leaf-mulch below the feeders for seeds. Two Chipping Sparrows, a Carolina Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse, a Downy Woodpecker and a Carolina Wren crowded the larger feeder, coming and going. The dry jidit-jidit call of a Ruby-crowned Kinglet laced its way through wax myrtles and Savannah holly. An Eastern Towhee, White-breasted Nuthatch and Brown-headed Nuthatches all were calling nearby. A Red-bellied Woodpecker explored the trunk of one tree after another, stopping to call chuck chuck.

And – maybe best of all – the chip calls of several Yellow-rumped Warblers skipped through the bare treetops as the little birds flew from spot to spot. 

But then, for several minutes, as I left our yard and walked down the road, the day became very quiet. Winter quiet, with no insect sounds and, for a while, few or no birds nearby. 

Until, from far up in the bare branches of pecan trees along the edge of the road came the very high, sibilant ti-ti-ti calls of a Golden-crowned Kinglet. In the cold, crisp, quiet winter air, the calls were very distinct, and no doubt at all about what it was. I could see a little bird, moving like a kinglet, but it was too high up for me to be able to see any details or even catch a glimpse of color before it flew further away. But it was still so nice just to know that this winter we are lucky enough to have a Golden-crowned Kinglet or two that I can find now and then. 

Soon after that, I heard several mewing calls from a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker – also standing out so clearly against the background quiet. I found it on the side of a pecan tree, far back from the road and moving around the trunk, so I couldn’t see it very well. But it continued to mew again and again, a pretty, expressive, familiar call. 

A large shadow suddenly sailed low over my head, and I looked up to see the pale underside and wide, outstretched wings of a Red-tailed Hawk. It swept up to a branch in a bare-limbed tree not far away, showing a warm red tail as it settled. And immediately, as if they’d been waiting, a dozen or more American Crows came from another direction, cawing wildly, their “hawk alarm” calls. They kept harassing it until it flew away again.

Further on, a Pine Warbler sang its lovely trill from trees around a small pond that sits far back from the road in a kind of small, manicured meadow. This area often attracts a good many birds, and this morning was a good example. Three handsome Northern Flickers foraged in the short, dry grass around a cluster of trees. A Northern Mockingbird sat in the top of a big old cedar tree, facing the morning sun. An Eastern Phoebe hunted from low branches, quietly bobbing its tail. A few American Goldfinch flew over, calling their light “potato-chip” calls. Several Blue Jays cried. A few plaintive calls of House Finches. And more Red-bellied Woodpeckers, Downy Woodpeckers, Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, Carolina Wrens, Eastern Towhees, and Ruby-crowned Kinglets. A solitary Turkey Vulture flew over rather low.

Although the whole walk this morning was beautiful, like a southern winter scene in a clear globe, sparkling with birds and sounds, the highlight for me came near the end, as I was on my way back home. In one yard, two Common Grackles were foraging among grass and shrubs and trees along the edge of the road. Big, showy, strutting birds with long bills, long tails and iridescent black plumage. I could hear a very few more blackbirds not far away but at first didn’t see any others. We have seen so few blackbirds this winter here compared to past years that I’m very happy to see two Grackles – and I stood for a few minutes watching them. This was in an area that’s very close to the county’s water treatment plant and a creek.

On the far side of this same yard and much further back from the road, I saw several songbirds searching the ground around a large forsythia bush, including a Brown Thrasher, two White-throated Sparrows – and six blackbirds that were not grackles. They were smaller, moving differently, with pale yellow eyes and slender bills. They kept moving around the bush, so I could only see glimpses of them at a time until two emerged into a sunlit spot – showing a warm rusty sheen over their backs. Both were Rusty Blackbirds. 

This morning began in the low 40s and felt colder, with a raw, damp edge in the air and a breeze from the east. It was a very gray day with layers of gray clouds but no rain until the early afternoon. When I stepped out onto our front porch, Carolina Chickadees and Tufted Titmice were coming and going from the two feeders. A Downy Woodpecker was working here and there in the bare limbs of the trees. Several Northern Cardinals foraged in dry leaves on the ground, especially under the feeders. Two Chipping Sparrows sat on one of the feeders eating, as they often do, now and then dislodged by a Titmouse or Chickadee. A Carolina Wren clung to the hanging block feeder it favors, eating what looked like black sunflower seeds. Yellow-rumped Warblers flew from spot to spot among the wax myrtles and trees, calling their chip calls. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet chattered. 

I could hear lots of rustling in dry leaves, under the shrubs and all around, and very quiet seet calls, and slowly I began to see a White-throated Sparrow here – and there. One sitting up on the edge of an azalea shrub. Another scratching up leaves below the birdbath. Another two – or three – out foraging in the carpet of leaves and woody mulch.

A fawn-brown bird flew to the rim of the birdbath right in front of me – and though it sat with its back to me, I knew immediately from the smooth brown of its back and the distinctly reddish tail and the upward tilt of its head, it was a Hermit Thrush. One of the happiest sights I could have wished for. It was only a few feet away, so close! And it turned its head toward me a bit, so I could see its face in clear close-up, with its wide, watchful eye, and some of the streaks on its throat and upper chest. 

I’ve been hoping for a Hermit Thrush for weeks now, and this is the first one I’ve seen. Though a Hermit Thrush is not actually very shy, it is solitary in its habits, at least in the winter season when it’s here. So I wouldn’t expect to find flocks of them, but individual birds that each seem to settle into their own winter territories – like our yard, and the yards of some of our neighbors, and certain spots in the woods – where I might count on seeing one often.

After only a minute or so, a big red Northern Cardinal flew to the birdbath and the Hermit Thrush flew away. But then, in not too many more minutes, the Cardinal flew away and the Hermit Thrush returned to the same spot on the birdbath, and I watched it sit and take several sips of water, tipping its head far back with each careful sip to swallow. My view of it was so close and so very clear, and it felt as if it didn’t mind my presence or my watching. I’m sure it was only my imagination that it watched me with as much interest as I watched it. But who knows. 

I can’t know if this is the same Hermit Thrush that spent last winter here around our yard, or a different one, but it still feels like a friend returning. And I don’t even know if this one has only just arrived, or if maybe it’s been around for a while. But I have been watching and listening for it – especially for its quiet, liquid chup call – and I have not heard that call until today, when I heard it coming from somewhere in the line of wax myrtles after it had flown away again. 

Since late October, we’ve continued to hear the loose, rattling calls of a juvenile Red-headed Woodpecker in trees around our back yard and our neighbor’s. It often sounds close, but I don’t often see it. This morning when I got back home after a walk, I heard the calls again – and this time I was lucky enough to see it just as it flew to a rather high spot on one fork of a tall pecan tree. In its bill was something that looked like a large acorn, and I watched as the woodpecker tucked the object into a crevice in the tree. It didn’t work at it long, just immediately tucked its bill toward and into the tree. It tapped at it two or three times, and then began to explore other spots nearby with its bill. 

Red-headed Woodpeckers are one of only four woodpecker species in North America that are known to store food like acorns and other nuts and seeds, or even insects like grasshoppers. They wedge them into crevices and cover them with wood or bark. So this was really interesting to see! My view wasn’t close enough to see if this one was covering what it had stored, but it did tap at it briefly.

The woodpecker – a juvenile with a full brown head and brownish-black back, and wings with large white panels – stayed in this one pecan tree for several minutes, calling its rattling call from time to time. Across the lower part of the white wing panels was a pattern that looked like dark, partly-scalloped lines. The woodpecker moved from the fork of the tree out onto a much-thinner branch, where it sat for a while and preened, addressing its back and wings and breast, each in turn. In only a minute or two its feathers looked fluffed up and downy all over. 

I kept watching until my neck was sore from leaning back – the woodpecker was pretty high up in the tree. But it was a lot of fun to see, and it’s not every year we have one stay around for a while. 

Today has been a cloudy day with cooler temperatures and drizzling rain all afternoon. Our home feels submerged in the orange-brown leaves of the white oak trees that surround us. Around noon, as we sat on the screened porch for lunch, with a very light patter of rain all around, the high, thin calls of Golden-crowned Kinglets sparkled in the oaks above us. They were too high up for me to see, but they stayed around for half an hour or more as the kinglets moved here and there among the leaves, sounding silvery and twinkling, like glitter scattered over a small part of the misty, mellow, contemplative day.

A little later in the morning as I headed out for a walk, Yellow-rumped Warblers were still scattering chip calls around the yard and a Ruby-crowned Kinglet called its dry jidit-jidit. Light showers of tan and yellow leaves drifted down gently. I was searching an open grassy area for Chipping Sparrows when a clear, pretty song took my attention in a different direction. 

It was a song that sounded more like spring than fall, a series of slow, sweet notes and phrases – the song of a Blue-headed Vireo, a bird whose appearance is as cool and lovely as its song. It wasn’t hard to find among the patchy brown and green leaves of an oak, partly because it wasn’t too high and it moved deliberately, not fluttering or flitting. And partly because – once seen – the face of a Blue-headed Vireo is so striking that it stands out as if in a spotlight. 

Its head was a deep blue-gray, with bright white markings around the eyes that look like spectacles. Its back was olive-green, wings dark gray with white wing bars, its breast pale with a wash of lemon-yellow on the sides. And its throat was snowy-white, which I saw especially well as it lifted its head to sing, again and again. 

But it wasn’t only singing. This Blue-headed Vireo was also making a frequent buzzy, chattery, insistent call, and I watched as it made this call several times. I later learned that it’s one of its most common vocalizations, described as a scolding call – very different from its gentle song. For me the call was a new one to learn, so this was maybe the most interesting part of watching it this morning – though it’s also always just a pleasure to see this beautiful bird. The scolding call is one I’ve heard many times in the past, but I didn’t know what it was. This is the first time I have watched a Blue-headed Vireo as it scolded, and could really connect it – and I hope, begin to learn it. 

Seeing a Blue-headed Vireo here is always special, and almost always takes me by surprise. They are not among our most common birds – though they do commonly show up now and then. I have seen them most often in very early spring, and sometimes like this, late fall. And it’s certainly possible that they are around more often that I realize, because they’re often more quiet.  

Blue-headed Vireos breed in Canada and in higher elevations in the eastern U.S. and winter in very southern parts of the U.S. and Central America. Some may spend the winter in this part of the Piedmont in Georgia – they are said to be expanding their winter range into this region, though it seems that most still move further south.

When I first started birding, several decades ago, I learned to know this songbird as a Solitary Vireo – and that name still seems to me to capture the essence of its independent spirit and elusive ways. Its name was changed in the late 1990s when the Solitary Vireo species was split into three different species to reflect more accurate genetic knowledge. But it’s nice that the Blue-headed Vireo’s scientific name remains, Vireo solitarius.

At 7:00 this morning, the sun just up, the temperature was 48 degrees and the day looked clear and crisp, with multi-colored leaves shimmering against a pale blue sky, and birds calling and singing. Yellow-rumped Warblers flew here and there, scattering chip notes. A White-throated Sparrow sang its high, sweet song. Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice and a Downy Woodpecker were coming and going from our two newly-filled bird feeders.

Two or three dozen American Robins were spread out through the trees around the front yard, chortling and chuckling their morning calls. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet flitted its way through the wax myrtles, calling its dry jidit-jidit. Some Brown-headed Nuthatches chattered in the pines, and I heard the whistling wings of Mourning Doves in flight, the distant cries of a Red-shouldered Hawk, the chucking of a Red-bellied Woodpecker, the chur-whee of an Eastern Towhee, and the peeping of several Northern Cardinals.

On a large, thick branch of the pecan tree closest to the house, a White-breasted Nuthatch crept down the branch in shallow curves, searching the bark and what looked like moss or fungi growing on the limb, and making the small, quiet, intimate calls that are some of the sweetest bird sounds I know. I think these soft, short little murmurs are contact calls between a pair, and it always feels a special privilege to be close enough to hear them. 

A White-throated Sparrow flew to the rim of the birdbath, not far at all from where I stood on the porch. It took several sips of the water – then it moved to the far rim and sat with its back to the water. From that perch, it took several sips from sparkling drops of water that had collected on needles of the yews that surround the birdbath, where it must have splashed out.

One morning in late October I heard a loose, bubbly kind of rattle we don’t usually hear around our yard. The bird fell quiet or drifted away, but I’ve heard the same calls several more times since then. I felt pretty sure it was a Red-headed Woodpecker, and Merlin agreed. So I’ve been hoping to find it. 

Late this morning I was checking out trees around the back yard when I heard the rattle again, and as I stood at the end of our driveway a fine young Red-headed Woodpecker flew to the trunk of an oak not far at all from where I stood. There it was! A juvenile, with a full brown head, and plumage that was maybe more brown than black on its back and wings, and big white panels in the wings. It didn’t stay long on this trunk, flew to another tree and then back toward me again, and then flew further away and out of sight. 

Red-headed Woodpeckers are not common in our neighborhood, but over the past twenty-three years here in Summit Grove, I have found solitary Red-headed Woodpeckers that stayed here for the winter season several times – though not every year. Always they have been juveniles, and when the spring arrives – they disappear. 

A mature Red-headed Woodpecker is brilliantly colorful – with full pure-red head, snow-white belly, and black wings with big white wing panels. They are very active and fascinating to watch. Although they used to be common across much of the eastern U.S., in the past several decades their populations have declined alarmingly, and they are now considered uncommon and local in most parts of their range. The main reason is thought to be loss of habitat and of the foods they need.

Because acorns are among a wide variety of foods Red-headed Woodpeckers favor, especially in the winter, I wonder if our very abundant acorns have attracted them this year. We’ve had so many acorns falling from the white oaks, especially, that for weeks we’ve had to be careful about walking under them, and now the ground in both front and back yards is thickly carpeted with acorns. 

By late morning the day had warmed up quite a lot, but I was still pleasantly surprised this late in the year to see a pretty yellow butterfly fluttering around the edges of some water oaks. It settled on the rim of an oak leaf and clung there, wings held up, as if soaking up the warmth of the sun. A medium-size butterfly, its wings were a clear pure yellow, with only a couple of very small dark-rimmed irregular spots on the underside. I’m not sure, but think it was a Cloudless Sulphur butterfly. It had settled just a little too high up for me to be able to try a photo.

Cloudless Sulphurs are among our most common butterflies, and at this time of year they are migrating in large numbers, many of them passing through Georgia on their way to a winter home in Florida or further south. This late summer and fall I have only seen a scattered few passing through our neighborhood, many fewer than in past years. I don’t know if their populations have decreased overall or if it’s a change that has only happened here. In general, they are still considered widespread and common. But this year – when we have seen so very few butterflies at all here, it seems to me that almost no butterfly species can be considered safe. 

The simple joy of watching a lemon-yellow butterfly on a sunny day is no longer something we can take for granted. When the chance comes along, the only thing to do is to stop everything and just watch. Watch it fly, watch it settle on a leaf or flower or blade of grass, search its delicate wings and try to remember every intricate trace, until it flies away again. And be grateful.