Birding Notes

As the Yellow-throated Vireo was moving away through the woods, I noticed a quiet female Summer Tanager sitting on the branch of a tall pine not far from the window. She called a quiet pik-a-tuk, and a warm rose-red male Summer Tanager flew to a branch very near her, then, within seconds, he flew up and fluttered over the female briefly. It all happened so quickly that I’m not sure they were mating, but think they must have been. He flew away immediately, but she stayed in the pine, moving from one branch to another, not searching for food, just perching, stretching out low and looking around, and calling pik-a-tuk softly.

Early this morning, a Red-eyed Vireo, Pine Warbler and Great Crested Flycatcher welcomed a warm, gray, showery day with song. Although the rain never amounted to more than very light showers, the weather seemed to encourage birds to be active.

All afternoon as I worked, office windows open beside me, I could hear a succession of bird songs and calls in and around the back yard – a Scarlet Tanager’s CHICK-brrrr, the cooing of a Mourning Dove, the songs of Red-eyed Vireo, Eastern Phoebe, American Robin, Northern Cardinal, Eastern Bluebird, Carolina Wren, the twitter of a Ruby-throated Hummingbird coming to the feeder, the squeaky chatter of Brown-headed Nuthatches, the mews of American Goldfinches, the fussing of Tufted Titmice and Carolina Chickadees – even the nasal calls of a White-breasted Nuthatch, an uncommon visitor here, though more frequent in the past few months.

Best of all, late in the afternoon I heard the unmistakable three-eight phrase and burry, mellow song of a Yellow-throated Vireo, very nearby. Yellow-throated Vireos used to be fairly common here in the summer season, but seem to have become much less common, and this is the first one I’ve heard this season except for two or three occasions when I could hear one singing very far away. A Yellow-throated Vireo song is usually described as a series of two and three-syllable phrases. To me it sounds somewhat similar to a Red-eyed Vireo, but slower, lower, with longer pauses and a more sultry, deliberative quality. One of the phrases very often sounds like a clear “three-eight.”

This one sang from the pines, oaks and sweet gums at the southeast corner of our back yard, right outside my window. I was afraid that if I went outside it would fly, so I watched through the window screen and listened, and after three or four minutes could trace it moving through the foliage, though mostly it stayed screened by leaves. It sang with very long pauses between phrases, and seemed to give the three-eight phrase most often. Finally it came out into a mostly clear spot for just a few moments, showing its greenish head and back, deep yellow throat and white belly. I couldn’t really see the yellow “spectacles” around its eye well at all, but could see its bill opening as it leaned its head back and sang. It disappeared again into the sweet gum leaves and continued to make its way through the trees, now moving further away, and then flew.

This morning the front yard sounded livelier than usual, mostly with the chatter and activity of two juvenile Downy Woodpeckers and the female parent. When I first came outside, one of the juveniles clung to a hanging block of seeds with the parent. It seemed to be doing fine at feeding itself, pecking enthusiastically at the seeds. But every now and then it fluttered its wings and made wheezy begging sounds, and the parent fed it.

The other juvenile – maybe a little more adventurous – sat on the edge of the birdbath, leaning down to take sips of water, sitting back up and tilting its head back to swallow. Then it hopped into the water and took a quick but thorough splashing, fluttering bath – and then flew to the trunk of a tree beside the feeder, where it pecked on the trunk for a few minutes, exploring, before joining the parent and other juvenile on the feeder, and begging to be fed.

At the same time, the Carolina Chickadee parents continued to go in and out of the ceramic hanging nest in the pecan tree. The pik-a-tuk calls of a Summer Tanager moved through the edge of the woods.

By late morning, the day had become very warm again – with a sunny, blue sky and high white cirrus clouds. A Red-shouldered Hawk was soaring very high and calling. The Indigo Bunting sang again in the field, this time from the top of a chinaberry tree on the edge of the power cut.

Toward the end of a walk through the neighborhood, it felt good to stop for a few minutes in the shade of a wooded spot, where the road comes close to a creek. Here a Northern Parula sang its somnolent, buzzy, summery song, and an Acadian Flycatcher called a plosive wheet-sit! An Acadian Flycatcher has been calling for several days from way down along the creek somewhere, but until today it had always come from very far away, so distant it was more like a rumor. This one was close, and it sounded crisp and clear. Like the Indigo Bunting’s song in the field, and the Tanagers’ pi-tuks in the woods, an Acadian Flycatcher’s quick, sharp calls around a lowland, wooded creek in summer make it feel like things are the way they should be.

A small greenish-gray bird with a slightly crested gray head, white eye-ring and white wing bars, an Acadian Flycatcher usually isn’t hard to find, perching on low branches to call frequently and hunt, and it’s not particularly shy. But because the woods surrounded a neighbor’s house, I didn’t go looking this morning, and was content anyway, just to stand for a few minutes and listen.

In the gray light of early morning, about 45 minutes before sunrise, one of the most enthusiastic birdsongs outside my open window was a brightly repeated wheee-er. After a few minutes of listening, I realized that it was a Great Crested Flycatcher, but the song was quite different from its daytime whreep or burrrt – not guttural or burry, but with a lighter, more musical, ringing quality. After listening a little while longer, it became clear that what had at first sounded like a repeated “wheee-er” was actually something like WHEEE-eer; wheeee-UP. The difference between the two parts was subtle, not as greatly different as the typed words make it seem, but clearly two different variations or phrases.

I think this was the dawn song of the Great Crested Flycatcher, something I don’t remember having heard before. The species account in Birds of North America* includes a description of its dawn song that sounds very much like what I heard. A Great Crested Flycatcher is frequently around our house and yard, so it’s not surprising that it would be one of our early morning singers. The BNA account also describes a third part of the dawn song that is very low and difficult to hear, a kind of prrr or chrrr. I did not hear this part.

Although the dawn chorus has seemed rather subdued most of this spring season, with fewer singers than usual – especially fewer neotropical migrants – it’s still a beautiful time. Two Chipping Sparrows sang their short bursts of trills; Northern Cardinal, Carolina Wren, Eastern Phoebe, Eastern Bluebird, Pine Warbler, Tufted Titmouse, Northern Mockingbird and Brown Thrasher also sang. A Blue-gray Gnatcatcher called spee – though I didn’t hear it sing.

*Wesley E. Lanyon, 1997. Great Crested Flycatcher (Myiarchus crinitus), The Birds of North America Online (A. Poole, Ed.) Ithaca: Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

May has begun with hot, summer-like weather. By late morning the sun was shining in a blue sky with big white summer-day clouds, and the temperature felt well on its way toward the forecast of 90 degrees. Not my favorite weather – but the perfect setting for an Indigo Bunting singing in the old field for the first time this season.  A tiny sapphire-blue dot of a bird, it sat in the top of a pine tree, overlooking the power cut that runs through the field.  Its sweet-sweet; chew-chew; sweet-sweet rang out over the privet, kudzu, tall grasses, purple thistles, blackberry vines, Queen Anne’s lace and other weeds and wildflowers.

The warm scent of honeysuckle drifted through the air. Wild pink roses have begun to bloom in rough profusion on eroded banks and the sides of ditches. A few orange and yellow butterflies flitted here and there, not many, but one fluttering little Blue Azure along the roadside. A White-eyed Vireo, Eastern Towhee and Northern Cardinal also sang in the field – the Vireo from somewhere in a dense privet thicket. Two Red-shouldered Hawks were soaring very, very high, little more than wispy specks in the blue, though their kee-yer calls sounded clear and much closer than they were. With them, one Black Vulture soared.

This afternoon, warm and breezy, with a drowsy blue sky and only a few small, high white clouds, the calls of both Scarlet and Summer Tanagers laced through the green leaves of the woods on the edge of our back yard – the electric CHIK-brrrr of Scarlet Tanagers and the quiet, percusive pik-a-tuk calls of Summer Tanagers. Among the most evocative sounds of summer, Tanager calls are subtle, seldom noticed, not music, but the real gossip of the woods, the conversation between members of a pair as they move through the trees.

A Mourning Dove cooed. A male Ruby-throated Hummingbird came often to the feeder hanging from the back deck – and once this afternoon, a female came to the feeder, too. For some reason, we have rarely seen a female so far, even though a male comes frequently.

In the distance, Chickadees and Titmice chattered. Closer, a pair of Cardinals peeped, and Chimney Swifts chittered overhead. A Carolina Wren sang, and another answered. A Red-bellied Woodpecker rattled. A Great Crested Flycatcher called Breet! Out in the front yard, Chickadee parents continue to feed young in the hanging ceramic nest in the pecan tree. The forecast for this afternoon was 90 degrees, and it felt close to that. It looked and felt like a summer day.

Then a Summer Tanager pair flew into an oak on the edge of the yard – one of the first times I’ve seen them this season. They sat on separate branches, both in full view, the male rose-red, the female dull yellow-orange and olive, both with stout, long bills. They sat for a few minutes, each just looking around, then flew back into the woods, and began to call pik-a-tuk, or pi-tuk, pi-tuk, back and forth again.

On a very warm, calm, sunny morning, a Black-and-white Warbler moved quietly through the branches of the water oaks in our front yard. It made its way steadily over one branch after another, searching for insects and other prey, paying particular attention to the ragged ends of large, broken branches. The warbler’s bright, crisp black-and-white striped colors merged into a kind of black patch on the throat. It frequently turned upside down to check out the bottom side of a branch, showing soft black spots on the white underside of the tail. I watched it for several minutes, and the whole time it was quiet, not singing, not seeming to make a sound.

Meanwhile, only a few yards away, a pair of Carolina Chickadees made several visits to a small ceramic birdhouse hanging from a branch of a pecan tree. They seem to be feeding young. This birdhouse has been hanging in the same spot for several years, and this is the first time we’ve seen any sign of birds nesting there. The Chickadee parents come frequently, one at a time, stopping first on a nearby branch, then quickly dart inside the nest hole.

Much later in the day, early evening, with dark clouds and thunder rumbling in the west, a Wood Thrush sang from somewhere very far away. The lyrical, fluted notes seemed to come from woods along the creek, barely close enough to hear. It’s the only Wood Thrush song we’ve heard so far this year, and it was hard not to hear it as a haunting, fading echo of a song that always used to be a defining part of summer.

Late on a warm, cloudy, windy morning, a single sharp, metallic chink! caught my attention as I walked past the old field along the dead-end road outside our neighborhood. I walked back a short way, heard a chink! again, and found a small dark shape with a slightly crested head in the top of a chinaberry tree, surrounded by huge, ragged, swelling mounds of dusty-white privet in bloom. The bird flew almost immediately, and perched in the top of another, taller tree in the middle of the field, where I could see him a little more clearly, even in the cloudy gray light – a male Blue Grosbeak. Not really a small songbird – more medium-size – a deep, dark blue all over with rusty-orange wing bars and a big silver, conical beak, he perched quietly, not singing, and not calling again, but switching his long tail back and forth, and swaying a little as the treetop swayed in the wind. He stayed there for three or four minutes before flying again, to another treetop at the far north end of the field.

Each year I hope Blue Grosbeaks will return to the field, where one or sometimes two pairs have nested in past seasons. Last year, I think only one sub-adult male stayed and sang for several weeks. The one I saw today might stay, or it might be only passing through.

Maybe because it was late in the morning, or because it was cloudy, or maybe because of the wind, few birds were singing in the field – a Northern Cardinal, an Eastern Towhee, an American Robin in a hedge across the road and a Brown Thrasher up in the top of an oak. A shadowy Gray Catbird flew across the road and into some shrubs, disappearing before I could see it well. A Black Vulture sat hunched on a utility pole just beyond the field, overlooking the busy highway below. A small flock of about 15 Cedar Waxwings flew over.

The most vivid highlight of the morning was a colorful and vocal Yellow-breasted Chat, singing in a huge privet bush in the old field, near a chinaberry tree in bloom. I heard its song first – a strange, harsh mixture of whistled notes, and a characteristic chet-chet-chet-chet. It took at least five or ten minutes of standing, listening and watching the privet bush and chinaberry tree before I finally saw a flash of yellow as it emerged from the dusty-white privet blooms into the open. It didn’t stay out long, but long enough to see the brilliant deep yellow of its throat and breast, the white belly, plain olive back, heavy bill, and the startling, bold white spectacles. It stretched out low on the branch, looked around, and flew to another bush, where it disappeared.

Later in the morning, the sky still cloudy, the light gray, a small, plump bird flew from a low branch down to the edge of the grass near a hedge of large wax myrtles. I thought it was a sparrow, but took a closer look – and saw a warm yellow throat and yellow breast streaked with reddish brown, a brown back, and a very bright red-brown cap – a Palm Warbler. Because it’s one of very few migrant warblers passing through our neighborhood so far this spring, I was particularly happy to see it, and watched as it moved along the edge of a mulched area, wagging its tail as it went. It flew up into the wax myrtles, where I could see it for a few minutes longer before it disappeared in the leaves.

Meanwhile, a Pine Warbler sang its loose, musical trill from the edge of the woods, while a Chipping Sparrow trilled its long, level song from a small pine in a neighbor’s yard. A flock of Cedar Waxwings flew over, trailing a spray of high, thin mews. A Great-crested Flycatcher called Breeet, a Mourning Dove cooed, a Red-bellied Woodpecker called quuurrrr. A Northern Cardinal, Carolina Wren, Eastern Bluebird, Eastern Phoebe, House Finch, Ruby-crowned Kinglet, and Eastern Towhee sang – and yet, somehow it seemed quiet, which doesn’t make sense, except that the songs and calls were scattered all around, maybe cushioned by the low gray clouds and the wind. One White-throated Sparrow whistled its Come-a-way-with-me in the distance.