Birding Notes

Few birdsongs could be more common, more dependable, more characteristic a part of a day in late May, than a Chipping Sparrow’s long level trill. Late this morning – a warm, sunny day with blue sky and big white clouds – a Chipping Sparrow sang from a cluster of small pines just across the road from our front yard. Two other Chipping Sparrows answered with similar dry, rapid trills, each in a different direction. And all through the neighborhood, Chipping Sparrows perched in trees and shrubs and sang, spaced apart in what seemed to be a pretty regular way.

Though a Chipping Sparrow’s song appears to be one of the most simple and unadorned – a long dry trill, or series of chips on one pitch – there are variations. Sometimes it sounds lighter, more airy; at other times, more intense; sometimes it sounds almost musical, with fluctuations in the trills, similar to a pine warbler’s song. Some of this may be in the ear of the listener, I know, but I think some is in the singer, too.

When I left to walk this morning, the Chipping Sparrow in the cluster of small pines across the road was singing from somewhere low in the dark-green needles. It was still singing when I returned home about an hour later, but now perched in the very top of one of the pines. So I paused to admire his clean pale-gray throat and breast and cheeks, with a crisp dark line through the eye, a very bright chestnut-red cap, long tail, and dark-streaked brown and cinnamon back and wings, with white wing bars.

Earlier this morning – and most mornings the past few weeks, when I’ve been awake early enough to listen – a Chipping Sparrow was one of the first singers in the gray light of dawn, probably this same one singing from the small pines now. Its early morning songs are different from any other time of day – short, light bursts of almost delicate trills with a faintly ringing quality. At this time, too, the sleepy mood of a listener and the soft light and damp, still air may well affect the way a bird song sounds – and imagination can color the expression or mood of the music. But even on different mornings, the short, rapid trills of a Chipping Sparrow’s Dawn Song seem almost always to sound light, brisk and airy.

Along the roadsides, all the tall-stemmed daisies are drab and fading now, but patches of furry pink rabbit’s-foot clover have begun to appear, and clouds of dusty-white Queen Anne’s Lace. And there are still lots of dandelions. In one patch of dandelions, a small dark butterfly was fluttering and feeding, and it stayed on a yellow blossom long enough for a long, close look. It was patterned in several shades of dark copper, with a shimmering sheen, and sooty-black, with three tiny white flecks in the upper part of the upper wings. The wing edges were scalloped and lightly fringed. When I looked it up later, I learned that it was a Scalloped Sooty Wing butterfly, a kind of skipper.

The highlight of the morning walk was a pair of Blue Grosbeaks in a tangled area of privet, kudzu and other shrubs and trees across the road from the old field. I had already passed this area and was headed home when I heard the Grosbeak sing – a rising and falling cascade of colorful notes. So I walked back down toward where it was singing, just hoping – and found two Grosbeaks very low in a small scrubby sweet gum tree entangled in a climbing kudzu vine and its leaves. The Grosbeaks were making short, flashy flights from branch to branch, chasing each other, flaring wings and tails.

Behind the sweet gum tree, rose a large thicket of privet, and behind that, several pines. As I approached, both birds settled down on separate branches of the tree, both quite low, and the male began to sing again.

The male was a deep shimmering blue, with rusty-orange wing bars and a big silver beak rimmed in black. Simply gorgeous. He sat on the edge of a branch, in the open, but no more than five feet from the ground, far from the top of the tree, and surrounded in shadowy leaves.

A couple of feet lower than him, and over to one side, sat the female, more screened by leaves from me than the male. I could not see her well, except to see that she looked pale tawny brown.

This morning began with the song of a Yellow-throated Vireo in the branches of the white oaks right outside our open bedroom windows, very close, and yet it stayed hidden in the leaves, and I never could see it. Its song was a rich, blurry series of notes that included frequent, buoyant three-eight phrases. An American Redstart also sang in the oaks, high and sharply clear, also hidden in the foliage, lower in the tree than the Vireo. The serenade was a beautiful way to begin a sunny, blue-sky day.

By mid-morning, the sun felt warm but the air still felt fresh with a hint of coolness when I headed out for a walk. Chimney Swifts twittered overhead. A Red-eyed Vireo sang in the woods around our yard, though it turned out to be the only Red-eyed Vireo I heard all morning, and in fact the woods seemed rather quiet – with only one Summer Tanager and one Yellow-throated Vireo all along the way; no Scarlet Tanager, Blue-gray Gnatcatcher or Black-and-white Warbler – though of course, I might have just come by at the wrong time.

Birds were not particularly active, but most of the usual suspects from the past week or two were singing or calling here and there – Pine Warbler, Chipping Sparrow, Eastern Phoebe, Carolina Wren, Northern Cardinal, Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Chickadee, Northern Mockingbird, Brown Thrasher, House Finch, and one or two American Robins sang. Mourning Doves cooed. Red-bellied Woodpecker and Downy Woodpecker rattled. Lots of Eastern Bluebirds were active, American Goldfinches mewed in the trees.

High in a tall pine near the crest of a wooded hill, two young Pine Warblers were begging in wheezy voices, fluttering their wings, and being fed by a male parent. He fed one of the juveniles, then paused to raise his head and sing, lifting a warm yellow throat to the sun.

An Indigo Bunting chanted its sweet-sweet, chew-chew, sweet-sweet song in a big, rambling, meadow-like yard with lots of scattered shrubs and trees. A Great Crested Flycatcher called Breet! and flew to a small tree on the edge of the same large meadow-like yard, where it perched in the open for a few minutes, turning its large, handsome gray head in profile. It called again – and a second Great Crested Flycatcher answered from a nearby tree.

Early evening on the back deck, the weather was warm and sunny, but pleasant in the shade of the oaks. Chimney Swifts flew overhead, and Ruby-throated Hummingbirds made steady, zipping trips to the feeder hanging from the deck rail. The male comes much more often, and almost always hovers while sipping nectar, buzzing with energy, always watchful, always on guard. Sometimes he relaxes enough to perch on the crook above the feeder for a few seconds. The female comes less often, and seems less bold, more skittish, but also, paradoxically, more calm when she does decide to stay. She perches, wings still and quiet, on the feeder to sip.

The pik-a-tuk calls of Summer Tanagers traveled through trees on the edge of the yard – and then a pair flew together into the large pine that stands at the southeast corner of the yard, pausing there in full, beautiful view. They did not stay long, but long enough to see the rich rose-red of the male, and the dull-yellow and olive of the female. The male held nesting material in his bill.

From very far away, came the full, percussive call of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo, the cuk-cuk-cuk-cawwp-cawp-cawp call itself like a fading echo. This is the only time so far this season that I’ve heard a Yellow-billed Cuckoo’s call. But I am hopeful still that maybe one will return to our woods for the summer.

And then – another nice surprise in the same spot. While I was waiting and watching to see if the Gnatcatchers would come back again, I caught a glimpse of black-and-white stripes among the leaves, again very low, almost on the ground, though a little further back in the shadows of the edge of the woods. It disappeared, but I could see leaves rustling as it moved, and after a minute or two, a female Black-and-white Warbler emerged, still very low, creeping over leafy branches. Black-and-white striped all over, she looked only a little less crisp and bright than a male, just slightly faded, like yellowed pages; a prominent striped head, and white stripe over the eye, and a soft black pattern of spots showing under the tail when she turned up to search the underside of a branch. She moved quietly, not calling or making any sounds that I could hear. Then she paused, looked around – and flew across the road and high up into some tall pines.

Late in the afternoon on a very warm, sunny day, the only bird I heard when I first stepped outside was the soft coo of a Mourning Dove. As I walked through the neighborhood under a deep blue sky with big white cumulous clouds, four Chimney Swifts twittered as they swept over, a Blue Jay cried, a Northern Cardinal sang, Crows cawed in the distance. Birds were scattered here and there – the chatter of a Carolina Chickadee, the jubilee-jubilee-jubilee song of a Carolina Wren, the rattle of a Red-bellied Woodpecker. A Pine Warbler sang in the woods, Chipping Sparrows were dotted here and there, spaced out, singing their long, level trills from small trees and shrubs in grassy yards. An Eastern Bluebird flashed its startling color as it flew across the road and into the woods.

Almost everywhere in the neighborhood was generally pretty quiet, a typical late afternoon. But then, from sweet gum trees on the edge of the woods, next to a large grassy yard, came the wheezy spee-spee calls of a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher. Petite and delicate, a Gnatcatcher was moving through the bright green, star-shaped leaves of very low sweet gum branches that almost brushed the grass, like a dancer in its movements, so neat and crisp, silvery-gray and white, its long, slender tail upturned and switching – gathering the fluff from dandelions. As it moved, it paused to call spee! and was answered by a second Blue-gray Gnatcatcher hidden somewhere nearby in the sweet gum trees, also quite low.

The Gnatcatcher pulled up one tuft after another, until it had a bill full of dandelion fluff, then it flew back into the dense foliage of the sweet gum trees. So – I think maybe there’s a Gnatcatcher nest somewhere not far away, maybe lined with this soft, silky fluff. I waited and watched for a while, and could hear the Gnatcatchers continue to call, but did not see them again. A Brown Thrasher came out of the low foliage to forage in the grass, looking warm red-brown in the sun.

On a cool, crisp, sunny morning – after a cloudy day with some light rain yesterday – an American Redstart sang in a wooded area near the roadside. When I heard the song, I thought it was a Redstart, but because I don’t hear it often, the song is not familiar enough for me to be sure at first. It’s a high, tart series of notes, something like sweee-sweee-sweee-sweeer, but with other variations. Though it has a recognizable quality, the pattern of the notes is difficult to describe, and difficult for me to remember. It’s one of the birdsongs I seem to have to relearn, again and again.

I stopped, waited and watched – and saw a small, very active black bird with bright orange patches in the wings and tail, and on the sides. It moved through the low branches of oaks and sweet gums, flaring its wings and tail, flashing the colors, and pausing to lift its head, part its bill and sing now and then.

On a warm, cloudy morning, at the far north end of the old field, a Blue Grosbeak was singing from the top of a chinaberry tree. The big silver, conical beak gleamed, the slightly peaked head was deep blue, and in pauses between songs, the Grosbeak switched its long tail energetically. But its plumage showed a lot of brown all over, with patches and shadings of blue, so it looked like a sub-adult Blue Grosbeak – a male from last season that has not yet acquired its full mature plumage – dark, rich blue all over, with striking rust-brown wingbars.

I didn’t have the best view, though, and the Grosbeak flew after only a minute or two, so I’m not sure. Sunlight can do funny things to colors, and often a Blue Grosbeak looks more black or gray than blue from some angles. But – this one looked decidedly brown. It’s puzzling because last summer the only Blue Grosbeak singing in the field all season appeared to be a sub-adult, and I wonder if that’s going to be the case again this year.

It’s a small mystery, and I know I’ll never know the full story because I’ll only see the bird – if it stays around – once a day or so, at most. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll see a female, too, and on several occasions in past years I’ve enjoyed catching glimpses of interesting Blue Grosbeak behavior. But there’s so much more of its life that I’ll never see. In general, there’s a lot that is not known about the life and behavior of Blue Grosbeaks, and I think we’re lucky to have them here. It always has seemed to me a signature species of this old field in summer.

The species account in Birds of North America notes: “Although widespread throughout its breeding range, [the Blue Grosbeak] is generally scarce and virtually all aspects of its biology are poorly known, perhaps owing in part to its low numbers. . . . we still lack detailed information about Blue Grosbeak nesting ecology, courtship behavior, and song structure and learning, among other things.”

The account goes on to note: “Nesting in shrubs or tangles of vines along forest edge or roadsides, Blue Grosbeaks commonly produce two broods per year. Limited data suggest that it is quite heavily parasitized by the Brown-headed Cowbird.”*

Since I frequently see and hear Brown-headed Cowbirds in and around this old field, that seems a concern. More and more traffic on an already-busy highway just over the hill, and the replacement of fields, groves and wooded areas with subdivisions nearby have changed this habitat over the past decade or two, and each spring I watch and wonder if a Blue Grosbeak will return to nest here again.

So far the field itself remains large and wild, with a dense stand of full-grown pines as well as more open areas of thickets, vines and shrubs, and a power cut through the middle. So I’m hopeful it can remain good enough habitat for the Grosbeaks – as well as Indigo Bunting, White-eyed Vireo, Gray Catbird and several other species.

*Peter E. Lowther and James L. Ingold. 2011. Blue Grosbeak (Passerina caerulea), The Birds of North America Online (A. Poole, Ed.)

Early in the evening, about an hour before sunset, there seemed to be baby birds everywhere in the back yard, all of them insistently begging to be fed. Two juvenile Eastern Bluebirds sat close together on a high branch of an oak, well sheltered by foliage. Two young Downy Woodpeckers were more active, exploring the trunks of one tree after another, and also begging and being fed. I think there were some Chickadee juveniles around, too, but the most vocal babies were two tiny Brown-headed Nuthatch juveniles in a large pine at the corner of the back yard, with both parents, fluttering their wings, begging in a high, wheezy version of the nuthatch squeaky call, and being fed.

The evening was warm, cloudy and a little windy, with rumbles of thunder now and then, but no rain. Chimney Swifts chittered as they flew overhead. A Great Crested Flycatcher called Breet.