Birding Notes

Earth day began cloudy, damp, cool and breezy, after light rain showers overnight, and by eight in the morning, the trees around the house seemed rather quiet, except for the gentle chanting of a few Yellow-rumped Warblers. I was in my office working when I heard the emphatic meaah of a Gray Catbird – and found it sitting in the open, on the rail of the back deck. Slate gray all over, with its neat black cap, orange under the tail, it called several times, then flew up to a shepherd’s crook that holds a hanging geranium plant, sat there for about a minute, then flew away into the trees.

Gray Catbirds always seem to me to have a particular mystique, partly because of their sleek and shadowy plumage, and partly because they stay most often hidden in dense foliage. But I also like them because they bring back memories of seeing them many times in different places, habitats and circumstances. Though they mimic the songs of other birds, as Mockingbirds and Thrashers do, I think their cat-like call is more characteristic – and their behavior might fairly be described as feline, in some ways. They seem self-absorbed, secretive, often aloof, and move stealthily. But they can be very animated, and in unguarded moments almost playful.

Several years ago, a pair of Gray Catbirds returned in the spring to an unusually thick stand of abelia bushes outside the office where I worked in the house we lived in then. The Catbirds announced their arrival one morning with sharp, repeated meaah calls, and flitted from branch to branch in the abelias, switching their tails and creating their own homecoming fanfare that went on for most of that day. They nested in these abelia bushes for several years – I don’t know if it was the same birds or the same pair, but it seemed to be a favorite spot, with a creek and woods not far away, and plenty of shrubs and tangled undergrowth.

Long-stemmed white daisies have bloomed all along the roadsides, joining a mix of tall grasses, ground-hugging weeds, red clover, bands of low-growing, intensely purple stiff verbena; clumps of slender, coral-colored wild sorrel; and hundreds of dandelions, some yellow, some gone to fluffy seed. The first tall, rough purple thistles have appeared in the field. White flowers bloom on the blackberry vines, and the huge, looming privet bushes are blooming dirty-white too – not such a pretty sight, and their scent is sharp and unpleasant, drowning out the sweeter fragrance of honeysuckle. Kudzu and wild grape vines are green and spreading, and in shadier spots and ditches, and climbing up trees, twist the leafy-green vines of poison ivy.

Fluttering over the wildflowers, grasses and weeds along the roadside late this morning were dozens of small orange butterflies with elegant patterns of black and several shades of orange in the wings – Variegated Fritillaries. These are common, widespread butterflies that fly with shallow, fluttery wingbeats and don’t settle down easily or long on any one flower. As I watched them, it was hard even to find one that settled on a plant at all, and when it did, it barely stayed long enough to see well. They may find feed on violets, thistles, asters, red clover and many other plants often found in old fields, pastures and roadsides.

Earlier this morning – a crisp, cool, sunny morning, with a few white clouds in a blue sky – a male Ruby-throated Hummingbird came to the feeder I hung from the back deck yesterday afternoon. Hummingbirds have been around for many days by now, I’m sure, but this is the first one I’ve seen, so it feels like a kind of “first of the season.” In the front yard, a pair of Eastern Bluebirds are going in and out of the bluebird house. The male spends most of his time sitting on top of the house, but occasionally ducks inside. A Red-eyed Vireo sings from far away in the woods, and a Great Crested Flycatcher calls a deep, rolling breeeet! from somewhere closer. I first saw one this spring three days ago, and since then have heard one calling each day, and it’s good to have their confident, summery calls back in the woods again.

After more than a week of being away – kind of enjoying a last taste of somewhat cold and gray weather in the northeast, though even there, it’s been an unusually mild winter – I’ve come home to a warm, sunny and suddenly green and singing world.

Late this morning, the soft jangling trills of Yellow-rumped Warblers seemed to be everywhere in the new-green leaves. A Northern Parula sang at the edge of the woods, a Red-eyed Vireo further down in the woods, a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher called spee in the white oaks close to the house, and three Chimney Swifts chattered as they flew over – all first of the season here, for me at least – arrived while I was away. A Louisiana Waterthrush continues to sing from down by the creek, and other birdsong included Northern Cardinal, Carolina Wren, Northern Mockingbird, Brown Thrasher, Eastern Phoebe, Carolina Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse, Pine Warbler, Eastern Towhee, Chipping Sparrow, Eastern Bluebird, White-breasted Nuthatch, White-throated Sparrow and Ruby-crowned Kinglet. Mourning Doves cooed, and Downy and Red-bellied Woodpeckers rattled. Brown-headed Nuthatches chattered. Many Cedar Waxwings still are around, mewing and perching in the hollies and cedars.

A Tiger Swallowtail fluttered across the yard and up into the trees. Bees and wasps buzzed around. A blue-tailed skink slithered under a planter. On the deck rail, from the wide-open jaws of a green anole, about half of a very fat, pale green caterpillar waved in the air. The anole’s throat bulged. Slowly, gradually, it snapped and swallowed and stuffed the caterpillar in, until it was gone.

Also this morning at the State Botanical Garden – late in the morning on another cloudy, warm day – a path was lined with cherry trees in filmy pink bloom, full of the peaceful humming of honeybees.

A little further on, I stood on a slope overlooking a large open area of graveled paths, small trees and other plantings, a part of the Heritage Garden, I think. It turned into a charmed few minutes there on the hill, because five or six Northern Rough-winged Swallows began to fly all around me, circling over the open area, often below me or at eye level, dipping and climbing, and sometimes coming very close to where I stood, close enough to see them well, even though they never were still – the plain brown back and wings, pale belly, and squarish tail, dark on the tip. They were mostly quiet, only a few times making small, low chirping calls.

As I watched the swallows, I began to hear the calls of a Red-shouldered Hawk from the trees beyond the open garden area. The calls were the choppy, agitated er-er call, not the soaring kee-yer. Soon I could see two Red-shouldered Hawks in the trees, continuing to make choppy calls and taking short flights, stopping in trees in between flights, raising and flapping their wings while perched. Then they both flew and circled a few times directly overhead, so I could see them very well, and they clearly were juveniles – very pale underneath with bold brown streaks. They went back to perch in the trees. After maybe 10-15 minutes of these short flights and perching, a third Red-shouldered Hawk flew in, and this one was an adult with a reddish breast, and it was calling kee-yer. The two juveniles appeared to join it and all three flew higher and drifted out of sight.

Because of their behavior, I couldn’t help but wonder if these might have been recently fledged juveniles, even though I knew it was very unlikely – and when I checked with other, more knowledgeable birders with the local Audubon chapter here, they confirmed that late March would be way too early for Red-shouldered Hawks to fledge here.

The most likely and obvious explanation is that these were juveniles from last year, still in their juvenile plumage, which they keep for approximately 18 months. While their behavior seemed puzzling to me, I’m sure there are many possible explanations. It was interesting, and memorable.

At the State Botanical Garden again, late this morning, from a thicket close to the river came the distinctive “clicking marbles” call of a Common Yellowthroat, a call something like a bright, sharp tschick. The bird was hidden somewhere deep in a dense tangle of shrubs, but continued to call, so I could follow it as it moved. Now and then I could see a rustle of leaves and vines where it was – and finally a female Common Yellowthroat came out into full view for several moments. A softer, less flamboyant version of the male, she was lovely – with no black mask, but a yellow throat and chest, pale belly, olive back and wings, and thin white eye-ring.

It was especially fun to recognize the call, after not hearing it for some time now. My friends Marianne and David – who both taught me so much – were always very good at hearing it, but I was never quite sure until this morning, when I recognized it immediately. I haven’t been able to find it described anywhere else as sounding like “clicking marbles,” but this was David’s description – and it works.

On a warm, cloudy morning with very gray light, a friend and I were greeted by the songs of a Black-and-white Warbler, an Eastern Phoebe, a Ruby-crowned Kinglet and several Yellow-rumped Warblers when we arrived at the State Botanical Garden in Athens. The gray light made it a little hard to see birds all morning, but it was a very nice walk, rich with birds all along the way, and the perfect way to welcome the spring.

Eight warbler species were singing – including Northern Parula, Louisiana Waterthrush, Common Yellowthroat, and Yellow-rumped, Yellow-throated, Pine and Black-and-white Warblers, and one Hooded Warbler. Several White-eyed Vireos sang in shrubby areas along the river, and at least one Blue-gray Gnatcatcher called a spritely spee-spee.

Two brightly colorful Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers went round and round the trunk of a tree just inside the woods, one chasing the other, for several minutes – fun to watch. A wide-eyed and watchful Hermit Thrush came out from under a shrub to forage with White-throated Sparrows. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet flitted from branch to branch in a small tree, very close by. Two Great Blue Herons flew over, slowly, majestically. Northern Rough-winged Swallows swept low over the open garden areas. A Pileated Woodpecker trumpeted its call. And an amazing number of Cedar Waxwings flocked almost everywhere.

In the beaver pond area, we caught a glimpse of the bright yellow throat and black mask of a Common Yellowthroat that was singing and singing from a tangle of shrubs. A Swamp Sparrow came out to walk along a strip of dry mud. A Louisiana Waterthrush flew directly over us, low and singing, and a little further on, we watched another inspecting tree roots along the banks of a creek.

This morning the filmy hint of green that’s been hovering in the woods the past several days came out into new green leaves on many of the trees – mostly the water oaks, sweet gums and tulip poplars, I think. All of a sudden now, the woods look green again, instead of bare gray, though the foliage is still young and scattered and thin. A light fog hung among the trees, and a Black-and-white Warbler was singing in the white oaks close to the house. This time I could see it very well on the still-bare limbs of the oaks – a small, slim bird, crisply black-and-white striped all over, creeping over the branches, searching for food. It captured a long, wiggling caterpillar, and took several tosses of its head and snaps of the bill to consume it all.

A Pine Warbler sang nearby, a Mourning Dove cooed, a Red-bellied Woodpecker called a musical quuurrrr.

Later in the morning a White-eyed Vireo sang in a vine-covered thicket in the old field – another first-of-the-season returning songbird. Its percussive chick-peri-ooo-chick! song rang out loud and strong, but I couldn’t quite see the bird. From a rustling of movement in the tangle of vines and leaves I could tell where it was, but could see no more of it than a glimpse of a shadowy gray wing with white wing bars. It sang and sang, but stayed hidden away, deep in the weeds, so I could only imagine, but never see the gray-green bird with bright yellow “spectacles,” white throat and lemon-yellow sides.

At 7:00 this morning, about forty minutes before sunrise, a full chorus of birdsong was well underway. I celebrated the Equinox in a very lazy way – by lying in bed and sleepily listening through open windows, one of the most luxurious and pleasant ways to start a day. Many birds were singing, among them – Eastern Phoebe, Carolina Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse, Northern Cardinal, Carolina Wren, Eastern Towhee – singing an especially pretty and rather delicate Drink-your-tee and also Drink-tee – Eastern Bluebird, Pine Warbler and a Chipping Sparrow singing its dawn song – short bursts of light trills.

Most of the birds singing were year-round residents here, but among them were at least two winter residents, too – the quick, sharp, complex song of a Ruby-crowned Kinglet, and the slow plaintive whistles of a White-throated Sparrow. A Yellow-bellied Sapsucker mewed several times as it seemed to move from tree to tree, very close to the house.

A Louisiana Waterthrush sang from down in the woods around the creek – the only returning summer songbird in the mix.

The dominant singers, however, were two Brown Thrashers – one singing in our next-door neighbor’s yard, and the other, I think, sang from the top of a tall, slender river birch on the far side of our front yard, where I saw it still singing later in the morning. By 7:30, the full flush of birdsong had faded, though singing continued in a more scattered way. Ten minutes later, I was out on the back deck in time to see the sun rise – a rouge-red, shimmering ball, with no clouds around, drifting up into a clear blue sky.

This morning, on the last full day of winter – though winter weather has been a distant memory for several weeks now – a Black-and-white Warbler sang its high, sibilant weesa-weesa-weesa in a wooded area near a creek. It was the Black-and-white Warbler to appear this season here in our neighborhood. It was too far away and backlit by the sun, so I could only see its silhouette as it crept over branches and flew from tree to tree, but once it paused on a short stub of a branch, lifted its head, parted its bill and sang again.