Birding Notes

Early this afternoon a light green haze of new leaves coming out seemed to hover in the woods on the edge of our back yard. The sun felt very warm – mid 80s again, I think – and there’s no shade yet from the oaks beside the deck. But almost all of the trees are showing some signs of leaves or buds already. Water oaks, sweet gums and tulip poplars have new green or yellow-green leaves, and even the white oaks show a flush of color and small buds on the highest branches.

Yellow-rumped Warblers seemed to be everywhere, flying from tree to tree, with dry check calls scattering as they moved. A Cardinal sang, and a Carolina Wren, a Pine Warbler. An Eastern Phoebe hunted quietly from low branches and sometimes from the deck rail. Titmice, Chickadees and Brown-headed Nuthatches chattered in the pines. A Green Anole with a very long, thin tail scuttled toward the ferns. Carpenter bees, wasps, and butterflies drifted by.

Everything seemed lazy, warm and perfect for a nap – and then a very sweet, clear song appeared in the woods not far away, and came closer. It’s a song I never can manage to remember – there’s something elusive about it for me – so when I found the singer among the needles of a tall pine, its flashy yellow, black and white plumage was a sudden surprise, as it always is – a crisp, intensely colorful bird against the hazy background of the day. A Yellow-throated Warbler.

A small, slender, willowy bird with a long thin bill, a Yellow-throated Warbler has a black and white striped face, white belly, and very bright yellow-gold throat and upper chest. Its back is gray, with white wing bars, a white spot on the side of the neck, and black streaks down white sides under the wings.

Well-named, I guess, though the name seems too plain and doesn’t fully capture its flare and spirit – the Yellow-throated Warbler crept quickly over the branches of the pine, searching through clumps of needles, and several times flew up to hawk an insect from the air. After four or five minutes in the pine, it flew further into the woods and out of sight, but it seemed to stay around because I heard its song again, two or three different times, later in the afternoon.

The most interesting find of the morning was a Field Sparrow singing in an oak tree in an overgrown area across the road from the old field. Its song first caught my attention as I was walking past – the familiar song that begins with clear, drawn-out, whistled notes that get faster until they fall into a bouncing cascade that’s almost a trill. It’s a song that used to be common here, but in the past few years has become increasingly rare.

I stopped and walked closer, not sure if I was right, and fairly quickly found it – a small sparrow with a long tail, pink legs, dark brown back and wings with faint wing bars – and a white-ringed eye and pink bill. It was moving over the branches of a water oak, and appeared to be eating catkins and singing as it went.

Or maybe it was humming, if sparrows can be said to hum, because after the first full, familiar song, the sparrow changed to a quite different pattern of notes. This song – if it was a song – was more melodious, rather soft, and more varied than the usual song, a mix of soft whistles, trills and some chip notes. Instead of perching on a branch delivering its song with purpose, the Field Sparrow seemed to be just kind of whistling different phrases to itself as it moved around the branches, eating catkins.

As well as I could figure out later, this may have been a form of a Field Sparrow’s “complex song,” most often heard at dawn, though sometimes at other times of day. In this song, the cascade of bouncing notes comes first, followed by slower, down-slurred whistles, and the pattern of phrases can be more varied. In this particular case, the Field Sparrow gave the impression not of territorial defense or any aggressive purpose – but more of rather casually and quietly whistling while it worked. I don’t know if that’s an accurate interpretation – there may have been some interaction going on that I completely missed. But I watched and listened for several minutes, and that’s how it seemed.

Late on another very warm, sunny morning, a White-breasted Nuthatch was singing a nasal anh-anh-anh-anh-anh from the woods near our house as I left the yard for a walk, and a Louisiana Waterthrush whistled its bright anthem from down around the creek.

A short way down the road, a pair of Red-tailed Hawks soared, low at first, circling, coming close to each other and drifting away, climbing slowly, lazily in a hazy blue sky that looked more like summer than a day in mid March. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet raised its rapid, complex song from the privet thicket where it usually seems to be. A quiet, gentle-looking Dark-eyed Junco hid among the tangle of branches in the same shady spot. Many Cardinals, Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, Carolina Wrens, Chipping Sparrows, Pine Warblers and a few Eastern Phoebes sang, and Brown Thrashers sang from treetops all through the neighborhood.

On the edge of a sprawling tangle of privet, pines, sweet gums, poison ivy and other vines and weeds, there’s a tall, slender, gnarled old apple tree that’s been in bloom for the past week or more, not lush, but with clumps of white blossoms clustered around its twisted limbs. This morning many of its small, delicate white petals had showered over the grass and on the road where I walked. I love that old tree, quite different from any others here, the only apple tree around that I know of – though there may be others in overgrown areas. Though I know nothing of its history, except for the past twelve years, it looks tough and gaunt and twisted, with limbs that stoop over at the top, and yet it blooms with such tender beauty.

Several flocks of Cedar Waxwings are still around, hurtling over in tight formation, their thin high calls peppering the air. A large holly bush in one yard, taller than the house, looked as if it had burst into bloom with fluttering birds, as a colorful mob of Waxwings flew in and out and rustled in the dark green foliage.

A scattering of American Robins are still here, too, but today I didn’t see a blackbird flock or any blackbirds at all, except for two pairs of Brown-headed Cowbirds feeding in the grass. Bluebirds sang and hunted from low branches, mostly in pairs now. One pair has started a nest in a newspaper paper box by the road.

Bluets, henbit and dandelions continue to bloom by the roadside, joined now by some common kind of low-growing deep-yellow four-petaled flowers, and another kind of deep-yellow five-petaled flowers, and by a flush of small pale purple-pink blooms spreading over and among clumps of lush green clover and rough grassy plants. Quite a few butterflies were out – tiger swallowtails, a black swallowtail, sulphurs, and several orange butterflies I only saw from a distance, as well as wasps, bees and many other flying insects – I even saw two dragonflies today.

A light misty rain was still falling when I got back to our own yard. As I walked past a dense bank of yaupon hollies along the sidewalk, a bird flushed up with a startled thudding of wings and perched on a branch of a Savannah holly tree. I lifted the binoculars, expecting to see a White-throated Sparrow, and instead the bright dark eye of a Hermit Thrush looked back at me.

It sat in full, open view, very close, watchful, but not moving much, except to flick its wings a little, and to slightly raise the cinnamon-colored tail and slowly lower it again. Several times it uttered a low, muffled chup, sometimes at the same time as it flicked its wings.

It was a jewel-like view of a shy, quiet bird that I love to watch but have seldom seen this winter. It stood erect, head held high and slightly turned toward me, the bill slightly tilted up. Its head and upper back were a fine, gray-brown, shading to more brown, then to reddish-brown in the wings and tail; dark spots on the upper breast and throat; and on the sides, in front of the wings, very fine spots that appeared to be covered lightly with a haze of silver-gray feathers; a thin white ring around a very dark and bright round eye. The tip of the thin, pointed bill was dark, and the legs looked dull pink. In such a close-up view, the fine patterns and textures in the feathers of the thrush showed up with unusual detail – especially delicate and varied on the face, throat, breast and sides. I could have stood there for a very long time, I think, following the intricate lines and shades and character in the feathers.

Instead, maybe I was being lazy, but my thought was that I didn’t want to bother the thrush too long or stress it any more than I already had. It was so close that I felt more invasive than usual, and to stand there and stare much longer would have felt unkind. I’d rather leave it alone and maybe it would stay around. So I went inside, happy enough to have seen it.

Later in the morning, in another part of the neighborhood, a relatively small flock of blackbirds – not many more than a hundred, as well as I could tell – perched in bare pecan trees and foraged in the grass of a couple of yards. Among them were Common Grackle, Brown-headed Cowbird, Red-winged Blackbird, European Starling, and a few Rusty Blackbirds. One Rusty Blackbird male stood for a minute or two right beside a Common Grackle, showing a good comparison of their sizes, shapes, bills and plumage. The Rusty looked all black, not glossy, and still showed a shadow of rust in the back and shoulders.

A few minutes later, when I walked back by this same area, most of the blackbirds had moved on to somewhere else. A Brown Thrasher sang from a water oak tree. Chipping Sparrows crept among the brown grass of a lawn, and a pair of Eastern Bluebirds hunted from low perches, the male flashing bright blue.

In another yard, two birds of roughly the same size were separately searching the grass for food. Though I wasn’t close enough at first to see more than dark silhouettes, the way each stood and moved was distinctive – and interesting. One was clearly a big plump Robin, moving in its typical fashion – standing proudly erect and looking around, running a few steps, maybe pecking at the ground, then standing and looking around again. The other bird, not quite as large as the Robin, foraged in a completely different way, low to the ground, head down, searching and moving more steadily over the grass. It looked like a blackbird – and when I got close enough to see it well, it turned out to be a female Rusty Blackbird.

I didn’t see or hear any other blackbirds around, but maybe there were a few, and maybe the flock was not far away. For some reason, I was able to get closer than usual – she didn’t seem skittish – and to stand along the roadside and watch. The striking patterns and colors of her winter look were almost completely gone, mostly replaced by breeding plumage – a sooty dark-gray and dark, muted brown, barely two-toned. Her very pale, round eyes stood out in a startling way, and a faint, wide, pale stripe over the eye was still visible. I watched for several minutes, standing in a soft, chilly mist of rain, until a car passed by and she flew.

I don’t know how much longer the Rusty Blackbirds will be around, but if the male and female of today turn out to be the last good sightings of this winter, it’s a nice way to say goodbye.

Early this morning – a gray, cloudy, cool day – a clear, ringing song rose from down along the creek that runs through the woods. The soaring notes announced the approach of spring with a flourish like a fanfare, as they do every year about this time. A Louisiana Waterthrush has returned. Today is the first time I’ve heard one here this spring. Its arrival marks the beginning of the spring migration season, so its song always seems to me like a herald of spring – three or four clear, strong whistled notes, followed by a tumble of other jumbled phrases.

A Louisiana Waterthrush is one of the first migrant songbirds to return here from its winter home further south, arriving when the trees are still bare, the fields still brown, and often – though not this year – when the weather still feels like winter. A small, plump wood warbler, it has a dark-brown back, white breast streaked with brown, and a bright white stripe over the eye. Louisiana Waterthrush hunt along wooded streams for insects, earthworms, crustaceans and other small prey, and nest along the banks of the stream, sometimes among the exposed roots of trees.

Because of their secluded habitat, they’re not widely familiar birds, not often seen, but they are birds with personality, lots of fun to watch – and if they’re around, they’re not too hard to find. Walking along the edge of a creek on long pink legs, they bob their tails up and down almost constantly, searching crevices and hollows in the sides of the stream, walking over rocks, on small sandbars, over a fallen log or along a branch.

While Louisiana Waterthrush can be found throughout a large part of the eastern U.S., they are not abundant in any part of their range. Because they prefer clear streams and wooded habitat, their presence is considered a good indicator of the health of a stream – but that preference also puts them at risk as development spreads and stream water gets clouded from silt and other pollution. So each year it’s a good sign to hear that song again, encouraging to know they’ve returned.

On a chilly, bright, sunny morning with a clear blue sky, a Red-tailed Hawk swooped suddenly over my head as I was walking along the road, coming from behind me at lower than treetop level then flying upward, rising above the trees. It began to climb, making a large circle, turning so that its dull red-orange tail caught the sun, and rising quickly. As I watched it, a Red-shouldered Hawk appeared and flew directly toward the Red-tailed Hawk, diving toward it sharply then veering away.

Both hawks made big, loose circles and climbed slowly, and the Red-shouldered Hawk dived toward the Red-tailed Hawk two or three more times. I could not tell if any actual contact was made, but it was diving at the Red-tailed Hawk just as Crows often do. The size between the two hawks was quite noticeable in this encounter, the Red-tailed Hawk considerably larger. The Red-shouldered Hawk looked more compact, its banded tail and bold coloring vivid against the blue sky.

All this time both hawks were quiet. The Red-tailed Hawk sailed away out of sight, with the Red-shouldered Hawk still in pursuit, and only then did I hear its kee-yer calls. Several minutes later, in the same area, a Red-shouldered Hawk was soaring alone and calling a loud kee-yer, kee-yer, very high, so that it was barely more than a sliver in the sky.

I don’t know for sure, but think the Red-shouldered Hawk probably was attacking the Red-tailed Hawk because it had come into its territory and maybe too close to its nest. This happened in the same low, wooded area around some creeks where I’ve seen a pair of Red-shouldered Hawks often the past few weeks. In previous years, this has been more the territory of Red-shouldered Hawks, but over the past few winter months, a pair of Red-tailed Hawks has also been spending a lot of time here, and that’s relatively new.

This afternoon I heard a rapid drumming in the edge of the woods, and found a male Hairy Woodpecker drumming in what was left of a broken-off, standing dead pine. It was a mostly cloudy day, sweetly cooler after rainstorms moved through last night, washing away the very warm, humid weather of the past few days.

Erect posture, a long, rather stout, pointed bill, and intense, focused behavior are characteristics that can identify a Hairy Woodpecker – distinguishing it from the smaller Downy Woodpecker with very similar black and white plumage, white breast, black and white striped face, and a small patch of red on the back of the head of a male. Except for the drumming, this one was quiet. Often a Hairy Woodpecker is very vocal, calling out frequent, emphatic peenk! notes as it works.

This one drummed several times as I watched, on a bare section of the dead pine near the top, with pauses of 30 seconds or more in between. The drumming sounded fast and not deep, with an almost light quality – but maybe that has more to do with the tree than the woodpecker, I don’t know. In the pauses between drumming he preened, combing and digging his long pointed bill through his breast feathers and turning around to preen his back and wings. He scratched the left side of his head with one foot, then the right side of his head with the other foot. Then he drummed again.

After several minutes of this, he flew to a thin branch sticking out from a nearby white oak, and immediately began to knock vigorously on one spot on the branch. It was impressive to watch because he knocked hard, several times in a row, working steadily, using almost his whole body in the movement. Repeatedly, he leaned his head and neck far back and hurled it forward to strike the thin branch with the bill. Whack, whack, whack, whack. He paused a couple of times, but not often. I could see the hole in the bark and the pale splintered wood emerge – and then he seemed to find something, plunging the long bill into the cavity and pulling something out. Beetle? Grub? Whatever it was, he plunged the bill in three or four more times and seemed to be eating something. Then he flew to another oak nearby, wiped his bill on a branch, and knocked a few times there, but did not stay long before flying further away, into the woods.

Brown Thrashers began to sing, as usual, in mid February here. I heard the first one February 14 and others soon after that. For a couple of weeks, they all sat not in the tops of trees, but down a couple of feet, screened by the branches, and they sang rather softly, somewhat muted, as if warming up. But yesterday and today several have been up in the very tops of the trees, singing freely, each in a favorite perch overlooking the territory he claims.

One Brown Thrasher sings from the top of a tall, dying Leyland cypress not far from our house; another down the road in the top of a pine in a thicket; one in a tulip poplar near the summit of a wooded hill; another in a scrubby stand of water oaks along the roadside; one sings from the top of a pecan tree on the edge of an open yard; and another usually sings from a chinaberry tree almost smothered in privet and dead kudzu vines in the old field.

Although they’re year-round residents here, Brown Thrashers stay mostly hidden and quiet through the winter months, venturing out to feed on the ground, and diving into thickets or bushes at the slightest disturbance. But come late winter and early spring, they’re up and out in the tops of the tallest trees.

The song of a Brown Thrasher is not as virtuosic a performance as that of a Mockingbird, not so fluid and or delivered with such flair, though both mimic the songs of other birds. While a Mockingbird sings with its body almost as much as with its voice – it acts – it may flick its wings, raise and lower its tail, move around, look around, and even fly from spot to spot while still singing – a Brown Thrasher perches rather stiffly in one spot in a treetop, tail held down and head up, wings quiet, and sings from right there – a series of paired musical phrases that include its own musical notes as well as the mimicked songs of other birds. It’s known for having one of the largest repertoires of any songbird, sometimes more than 1,000 different song types.

A Brown Thrasher is a particularly handsome bird – large, slender, a rich red-brown back, wings and long tail, and boldly dark-streaked breast. Its bill is long and down-curved, and its eye a brilliant yellow. Overall, its appearance can be arrogant and fierce – though its behavior is often very shy and nervous. If I seem to be saying that it’s not as impressive as a Mockingbird, that’s not true. It’s just that they’re different. The flashy, sassy, extroverted Mockingbird – and the more reserved, deliberate and introverted Thrasher. Each has its place in the landscape, and if anything, it’s the Thrasher I find more intriguing, with more than a hint of mystery, complexity and paradox in its ways.

This morning the rich, smooth, colorful song of a Northern Cardinal began the day at first light, sounding as brilliantly red as it looks. The Eastern Towhee, an Eastern Phoebe and a Dark-eyed Junco also sang.

It was another warm, humid, gray day, the sky by mid-morning crowded with low and high clouds of many shapes and shades. At times the sun burned through a gauzy hole, but never quite broke through.

Birds seemed rather quiet all through the neighborhood, not silent, but few in number and scattered, with the usual suspects singing and calling from the woods or feeding in scattered flocks in yards. Two Black Vultures, a Turkey Vulture and a Red-tailed Hawk soared in a strong southwest wind. A Mourning Dove cooed.

Two Fish Crows called unh-unh to each other as they flew over – unusual visitors here among the many American Crows that are always around. Their short, nasal calls are higher in pitch than the caw of an American Crow.

Many American Robins are scattered almost everywhere through the neighborhood, and there are still a large number of Cedar Waxwings, too – not all flocking together but flying in flocks of two or dozen or so, or perched in chinaberry trees, privet, hollies and oaks. I stopped to admire several Cedar Waxwings perched in a large bare-limbed pecan tree across the road from the field. They all faced in the direction of the sun, even though it was covered in clouds, lemon-yellow bellies glowing like candles, faces exquisitely painted, crests all windblown and fluffy; tail-tips glistening yellow.  An Eastern Towhee, Carolina Wren and Carolina Chickadee sang in the field, and a few White-throated Sparrows called.