Birding Notes

When I went out for a walk this morning, I didn’t take binoculars with me because I had a busy day ahead and felt pressed for time. The morning was lovely, still slightly cool with a soft blue sky, high cirrus clouds and fading jet trails, though already the sun felt very warm, heating up fast. As I walked, I spent too much of the time lost in thought and plans, not listening fully to birds or appreciating the day around me. 

About halfway up a steep hill with a large undeveloped stretch of land on one side, a slender, dark bird with a long tail emerged from a tangle of weedy vegetation at about eye level and brought me back into the moment. A Gray Catbird. Looking almost like a shadow at first, the Catbird quickly became animated and stood on a slender branch of a shrub and looked around, switched its tail expressively. It was so close I could see it well, even without binoculars, and it stayed in view for several moments. Shadowy-gray all over, with a neat black cap and a graceful, light way of moving. I wasn’t quite close enough to see the patch of rusty color beneath its tail.

Gray Catbirds are not common here in our neighborhood, though in some years a pair will nest in an area with enough dense vegetation. This one might be passing through, but I hope it might stay around. I didn’t walk on until it slipped back out of sight in a tangle of vines and shrubs.

A Black-and-white Warbler is a small, slender wood warbler, true to its name, striped all over in crisp black and white. And its song has a black-and-white quality, too. Not musical or flashy at all, it’s a high, sibilant, lisping song – weesa, weesa, weesa – that can easily blend in with the background and go unnoticed. Especially now that the trees are fully out with new green leaves and there’s so much birdsong around.

A Black-and-white Warbler has been singing in the trees around our back yard since the middle of March, and its song is a quiet but definitive part of the scene. It’s like a subtle touch in a painting, maybe not obvious, but it changes everything. 

The song of a Ruby-crowned Kinglet brings a different kind of touch to the scene. A quick, lively little song, it starts with three or four soft whistles and then bursts into a tumble of bright, sparkling notes like bubbles in champagne. It’s a pretty and joyous song, bold and bright, but with a light, elusive, fairy-like quality, as if it vanishes into the air.

While a Black-and-white Warbler is a spring migrant that has recently returned, the Ruby-crowned Kinglet has been here for the winter and soon will be leaving for its summer home much further north. 

Today I was lucky enough to watch each of them, one after the other, in a white oak tree on the edge of our back yard. I first noticed the Black-and-white Warbler when it flew into the tree and sat on a branch and immediately began preening. It moved very quickly, as if it had no time to waste, shaking out one wing and combing it with its bill, then the other wing, and breast, maybe a little on the back or shoulder, feathers rumpled up – it all happened fast. After a minute or two of preening, it began to forage again, creeping over the branches, with its body stretched low and its bill probing for insect prey. Constantly on the move – and pausing often, though only briefly, to raise its head and sing. 

Only a few minutes later, after the Black-and-white Warbler had flown further back into the woods, a very small, gray-green bird flitted its airy way in and out of clusters of leaves, flicking its wings as it went. A tiny bird with a round gray head and face, and a bold white ring around the eye. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet. Its ruby crown was folded down and not in sight, but its gray-green plumage, brightly marked with the white eye ring and white wing bars looked crisp, and its personality sparkled with color. 

By the time I stepped outside this morning, the sun was high in a clear blue, cloudless sky and the day already felt very warm. The trees are almost all leafed out in green, and birds have come out and blossomed into song. Just standing on our front porch before heading out to walk, I heard Chipping Sparrow, Pine Warbler, Tufted Titmouse, Northern Cardinal, Carolina Wren, House Finch, Eastern Bluebird and Eastern Phoebe. American Goldfinches chattered and sang in the trees all around the yard – it sounded as if they filled the trees and I could see several of them in branches just overhead. A Brown Thrasher sang from the top of a tall red oak. A Red-bellied Woodpecker called its musical quurr. Two White-throated Sparrows splashed in the bird bath.

Several minutes later, along a low, shady stretch of road with woods on both sides, a Red-eyed Vireo sang as it moved through the treetops, a Louisiana Waterthrush whistled its clear anthem from somewhere along the nearby creek, and a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher called spee-spee. Among the songs of several other birds was a kind of gentle, chanting song that I couldn’t place. When I used the Merlin app to check it, it identified the singer as a Palm Warbler – to my great surprise. I don’t think I have ever heard the song of a Palm Warbler before now. I usually see a few here as they pass through in migration, but they are almost always in a more open spot, around shrubs or on the edge of a thicket or foraging somewhere low to the ground – a medium-size warbler with an olive-brown back, a yellow breast with rusty streaks, a bright rusty crown, and a prominent pale or yellow stripe over its eye. And most of the time, it’s walking on the ground – and constantly wagging its tail. These characteristic behaviors set a Palm Warbler apart from most other wood warblers. 

This one was somewhere up in the trees, singing and singing – and with a little luck, I found it, not far away. It moved with delicate grace, searching the branches and leaves, often curling itself around a branch or a branch tip, and now and then flitting off in the air to hawk an insect. But even with this different kind of foraging, it frequently wagged its tail. And every few seconds it paused, lifted its head up and tilted it back – and sang. 

Its song was a gentle, chanting series of notes almost all on one pitch. Although a Palm Warbler’s song is often described as a “buzzy trill,” I would not have described it as either buzzy or a trill – but this was the first time I’ve heard one, so I have a lot to learn. And this was fun – a new song for me – from a bird in an unexpected setting. And the chance to listen and watch for several happy minutes.

When the sun rose this morning, the sky was so covered in thick, dark clouds there was little hint of light. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the air felt warm and restless. But through an open window I heard a light, buzzy, airy song that sounded carefree, as if the little bird were skipping through the treetops. It was the song of a Northern Parula, a very small, pretty wood warbler with a bright yellow throat and breast, a blue-gray head and back, a greenish patch in the middle of its back, and a black and chestnut band across its yellow chest. I couldn’t see it from the window, but it sang several times. It’s the first Northern Parula I’ve heard or seen here so far this spring, returned from its winter further south to spend the breeding season. Northern Parulas nest in lowland, forested areas in swamps or near streams across much of the eastern U.S., and are known for preferring habitat with mosses or lichens, which they use to make their nests, placing them very high up on the end of a branch in the forest canopy. 

This morning, another cold and clear day just before sunrise, another birdsong woke me just as quickly and happily as the Black-and-white Warbler two days ago. This one was the very different song of a Blue-headed Vireo, a series of slow, sweet phrases, repeated over and over again. It came close and stayed nearby for several minutes, as other birds sang in the background. I listened, following the song as moved rather slowly from tree to tree around the edge of our back yard. I could only imagine its sleek, round blue-gray head with a bold white pattern like spectacles that circle the eyes. Its back is greenish, its throat and breast clean white, with a wash of yellow along the sides. It moves as it sings – deliberately, with pauses – searching the branches for insects, spiders and other small prey.  

This trio of early migrants here – Louisiana Waterthrush, Black-and-white Warbler and Blue-headed Vireo – usually all arrive around the same time – mid March if not earlier. As their songs join the songs of our year-round resident birds and winter birds, they are like the earliest spring flowers, welcome signs of a new season of life and color. 

A few minutes before sunrise this morning, the song of a Black-and-white Warbler pulled me quickly out of bed. I’d been waking slowly and lazily, but the sibilant weesa-weesa-weesa song that came through my open bedroom window is one I’ve been waiting impatiently to hear. I listened at the window for several minutes as it moved from tree to tree around our back yard, singing as it went. I couldn’t see it because of the angle of my view and a porch roof below, but it came pretty close at times and I could imagine the small, slender bird, striped all over in black and white, as it crept quickly over and around branches, searching for food. 

This morning began cold and clear, with a hard freeze that has threatened to nip some of the flowering trees and shrubs that have emerged so early this year, after a stretch of warm, spring-like weather that began in mid-February. As I stood on the front porch before starting out on a walk, I heard a bright, soaring song coming up from down near the creek that runs through our woods. It was the song of a Louisiana Waterthrush, a lively brown warbler with a streaked breast, long pink legs and short but very expressive tail, that returns each spring to nest along the banks of streams. Always one of the earliest migrating birds to arrive, the Louisiana Waterthrush sings a bold, shining song that lights up the winter-gray woods – and heralds the approach of spring.

From the deep silence of a dark, still night came the sudden, booming call. Hoo-owwww, the call of a Barred Owl. It sounded very close. It was a mild night, not cold at all, with temperatures in the mid 50s, perfect for sleeping with open bedroom windows, but no crickets or other night insects singing yet. I’d been lying awake between 3:00 and 4:00 am, having trouble going back to sleep, when this big, rich, expressive call brought the too-quiet night to life. It’s amazing how much an owl can express with just one call. Not that I know what it was expressing, but it sounded full of life and detail. 

After that one call, silence returned for several minutes, maybe half an hour or more, and I thought the owl must have flown away. But then, just as unexpectedly, it called again, sounding as if it came from the very same spot. It sounded very close – though I know this can be deceptive. This time it called three, maybe four times, with just a few moments in between. Not the full who cooks for you but just one good strong Hoo-owww each time, ending with a slight, purring tremolo. I listened, but could not hear another owl’s call in response. 

Though a Barred Owl’s call is powerful and at times I would describe it as loud – as when two Barred Owls are caterwauling back and forth in their wild way. But when one calls like this, it seems to express a lower, more intimate quality – though certainly it still fills the night. I could almost feel this call as much as hear it, feeling it in my chest and stomach and heart, a velvety, feathery quality, warm and sensual. And that feeling of being connected to life outside in the night, on a restless, sleepless night, was a comforting thing.

Early afternoon on a softly sunny, unusually warm day for this time of year, I opened windows in a room that faces the front yard, taking advantage of the weather to let some fresh air into the house. There’s a birdbath that stands among the shrubs just below these windows, and I was a little surprised to see not just one or two but several small birds in and around it. We’d filled the birdbath with fresh water in the morning, the birds were obviously delighted, and the scene made me think of a renaissance painting of bathing nymphs in a sylvan setting.

Most of the birds were White-throated Sparrows, plump brown-streaked sparrows with black and white-striped crowns, neat white throats and pale gray breasts, birds that most often stay well hidden in shrubby vegetation and come out cautiously to forage for food on the ground. These were all enjoying a warm-day outing with what looked like unusual abandon. One sat in the middle of the pool of water, dunking, splashing and doing its best to keep others away. Other White-throated Sparrows were all around in shrubs and on the ground, either waiting or trying to get in themselves. One and sometimes two at a time sat on the rim and took sips of water, and now and then one would hop in and splash briefly before being chased out. Three White-throated Sparrows waited in the dense green yews right beside the birdbath and others foraged nearby in brown mulch and green moss. All of them were coming and going in leisurely ways, looking unusually peaceful and at ease, for the moment feeling safe and hidden in this little spot.

The dominant White-throated Sparrow sat and soaked, splashing its wings and fluffing out its chest feathers, looking so sensual I could almost feel the fresh, cool water. The gold accent on its face gleamed, and the white throat feathers shined. After several minutes another bold sparrow flew up and got into the water with the first one, and they both splashed around while others came one or two at a time for drinks. 

The interlude lasted for several minutes and finally ended when a bright red male Northern Cardinal flew to the rim of the birdbath, sending all of the White-throated Sparrows scattering like dry leaves into nearby shrubs and out of sight. 

This morning I tested positive for covid for the first time. I felt pretty rough with cough, congestion and other symptoms, so it wasn’t a surprise. The weather was darkly gray, cold, damp and felt miserable in every way. But in the middle of this dismal day there came one charmed and happy moment. 

Through an open window in the kitchen as I stood at the sink, I heard a soft, familiar chup among the other calls of birds nearby. And sure enough, after finding my binoculars and just a few moments of searching, I found a Hermit Thrush sitting on a low branch of an oak on the edge of the back yard. A gentle, pale-brown bird with dark spots on its throat and chest and a reddish tail that it lifted up and lowered slowly. It held its head erect, with the bill pointed slightly up, and it seemed to be looking back at me with a round, watchful eye, as I looked at it. 

It’s a bird I don’t see very often, though I know one has spent this winter so far in the shrubs around our house, coming out to forage in the mulch with sparrows and cardinals and towhees. A quiet, unobtrusive songbird, it has long been one of my favorites, so today it felt comforting to have this brief, sweet connection.