Birding Notes

About ten o’clock on a very warm morning earlier this week, under a hot blue, cloudless sky, I was close to the end of a late walk – dripping wet and annoyed with myself for not getting out earlier – when I came into a shady stretch of road and became aware of a low, peaceful, hypnotic humming nearby. It was bees. Honeybees. At first I thought it might be a swarm, but then realized that a tree along the side of the road was in bloom, and was full of hundreds of honeybees, busy collecting pollen and nectar.

There are few sounds in nature as peaceful and soothing as the hum of honeybees at work. I stood under the tree for a long time, just listening and watching them come and go from the flowers, the pollen sacs on their legs packed full. There’s nothing threatening about bees at work like this – in the low thrum of the collective hum, a deep and ancient sense of harmony and well-being can be felt.

The tree was a smooth sumac, a small, rather awkward, sprawling tree, with leaves of many leaflets each, and loaded with clots of tiny yellow flowers. Bees worked over every cluster of blooms, especially on the ones most exposed to the sun. They seemed to be coming and going mostly from a thicket of trees and shrubs across the road – so maybe there was a hive in a tree there. They passed back and forth over my head.

The sound was familiar because I used to keep bees, and loved it, until I became allergic to their stings. It was fascinating, and I had enjoyed every part of it – including the honey, but also watching and learning about bees and their complex society and behaviors. Now, honeybees face very serious threats of several different kinds, most recently the puzzling and devastating epidemic of colony collapse disorder, which has caused the loss of large numbers of bee colonies in North America and Europe.

So to come across such a nice large gathering of honeybees was encouraging, as well as enjoyable, though it’s also a bittersweet reminder of how much we have to lose.

Late one afternoon earlier this week it was still very warm on the deck, hot really, but a strong breeze and the shade of the oaks made it pleasant enough to be out. The hummingbird feeder that hangs from a crook off the deck is a popular spot and fun to watch, not only for hummingbirds, but also for Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, American Goldfinches and Brown-headed Nuthatches – all of which come to the circular feeder to drink from water in the little moat in the middle, meant to discourage ants.

The chickadees, titmice, goldfinch and nuthatch cling to the arm of the hook from which the feeder hangs, and turn upside down to sip from the moat. They also sometimes go to a shallow clay saucer that I try to keep filled with water in a shady spot near the ferns and impatiens – but they seem to much prefer the moat in the feeder for drinking. At times, a Ruby-throated Hummingbird zooms up, backs off and hovers impatiently while a much larger chickadee or titmouse drinks.

The chickadees and titmice usually chatter loudly as they arrive and the whole time they’re on the feeder, the chickadees with long strings of dee-dee-dee-dee-dees. The goldfinches come more quietly, slipping in and away, while the nuthatches sometimes call, but are more often quiet. A pair come together and take turns, each one waiting nearby in the trees while the other sips from the moat.

On this afternoon, I was watching a quiet Brown-headed Nuthatch leaning upside down to drink, when a Ruby-throated Hummingbird male with a brilliant, iridescent throat came zipping up and hovered near the feeder. He hesitated. The nuthatch raised its head and looked at the hummingbird, then leaned back down to drink. The tiny hummingbird then cautiously, delicately settled at one of the nectar holes on the round feeder and began to sip. The nuthatch looked up again, and the hummingbird rose in the air and backed up a little – and the two exchanged a good long look. Then the hummingbird settled back down on the feeder, and the nuthatch turned back to the moat. It was only for a very few, tentative seconds, but they shared the spot.  The nuthatch took one more drink before flying away to join its mate.

In this summer’s brutally hot, dry weather, both food and water must be harder to find for birds and other animals, but I don’t know if that had anything to do with this incident of sharing – it might not have been unusual at all. But certainly the birdbaths and other water sources around our yard are pretty busy with everything from crows to hummingbirds all day long – though not often with different species sharing a spot. Bluebirds, robins, phoebes, house finches, Chipping Sparrows, mockingbirds, cardinals – and more – bathe and drink from the birdbath, but almost always they come at different times, as if by agreement of some unspoken kind.

One of the few good things about the very hot humid weather of late summer here is that sometimes it brings a gathering of Mississippi Kites. When it does, they seem to me a little like the Summerfolk in a children’s book by Doris Burn – a whimsical and airy cast of characters that appear on a dreamy summer afternoon in a swamp.

One afternoon last week, around 2:30, I drove out to an area in the country where Mississippi Kites had been reported. It was hot, dry and sunny with a hazy blue sky, white clouds and orange cloud castles on the horizon. As I got close, a slim dark shape appeared in the hazy air, one kite sailing above a field, then another and another came into view. When I pulled off along the side of the road, I could see at least two dozen Mississippi Kites circling, diving, swooping up and feeding on insects over an open area of farm fields divided by bands of tall trees and shrubs. It was almost impossible to count them because they were in constant motion, like a large loose swarm, but other observers had estimated seeing around 30 kites in this same spot in recent days, and that seems about right.

Sleek, slender raptors with long wings and a buoyant, graceful way of flying that’s a joy to watch, Mississippi Kites often appear dark from a distance, but at closer range you can see the smooth gray color of the upper wings and back, a paler gray underneath, with round, very pale-gray heads that appear to be white, small black patch around the eye, a dark tail, and white edges on the wings. They flew smooth and fast, turning and circling in a wide area, a few always drifting off in one direction or another but then drifting back.

It was captivating, almost intoxicating to watch – focusing on one here, another there, a swirl of acrobatic, amazing flight. Sometimes a few came very close to where I stood, plunging suddenly toward the ground and sweeping back up with an insect in the talons, maybe a June bug, holding it up and leaning the head down to eat as they flew. Some flew directly overhead, among them a few juveniles, whose brown-streaked plumage and banded tails are as striking in appearance as the gray adults. Mostly the whole spectacle was quiet, but as they flew over, a few kites whistled a high, clear, two-syllable call, PEE-ooo, PEE-ooo.

Mississippi Kites are not common or abundant here, so it’s always special to see them, and it’s a good way to make the best of a hot, humid, withering summer afternoon. And like the Summerfolk, they eventually drift away into the haze, leaving a vague, bemused feeling of unreality about it all.

(The Summerfolk, written and illustrated by Doris Burn, was published in 1968 by Coward-McCann, Inc., New York. A favorite of our sons when they were young, it’s now become a favorite of our grandchildren, too.)

Passing one of the more thickly wooded areas in the neighborhood, I heard soft flicka-flicka calls repeated, and found a Northern Flicker in a big dead broken-off pine back in the woods a way. The Flicker was standing on a branch and stretching out almost horizontal as it made these very soft, sensual flicka-flicka calls. It did this several times – then I realized there were two more Flickers, all three perched fairly close together in the bare branches of the same dead pine. Two of the Flickers faced each other, both making these calls, sometimes flaring the tail and turning the head and bill upward, and sometimes stretching out low. The third did not seem to be calling or engaging in the same posturing, at least not while I was watching. I could see them well enough to see the black crescent on the chest and speckled breast and the shape and tail – but could not see any of the faces clearly enough to see a mustache-streak, maybe because of the light. So I don’t know if they were males or females or one or two of each.

Their behavior was similar to what’s described as a “dance” or “fencing duel,”* in which two Flickers engage in a ritual of movements and calls, while a third watches. The behavior is associated with territorial defense and with pair formation, but has been observed at other times too, and apparently occurs in different situations and different ways, and not all are fully understood. The behavior I watched did not seem as intense as some of the ritual dances are described, but was like a lower-key, maybe off-season version. When I left after several minutes, the three birds were continuing their encounter. The soft flicka-flicka calls sounded gentle and expressive, and soon faded into the shadows of the woods behind me.

* Karen L. Wiebe and William S. Moore. 2008. Northern Flicker (Colaptes auratus), The Birds of North America Online (A. Poole, Ed.) Ithaca: Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

The Yellow-billed Cuckoos were one of the highlights of the most active morning for birds in several weeks. Weather has been very hot and dry. Birds have been – as usual at this time of year – pretty quiet and staying mostly out of sight. But this morning temperatures had dropped into the upper 60s and the air felt cool and fresh, the sky soft blue with small high white clouds.

Three Eastern Bluebirds perched in the top, bare branches of a pecan tree, facing the sun as it climbed higher. An Eastern Phoebe gave a couple of tsup calls and flew into the top of a small scrubby tree and sat there, bobbing its tail before flying on further and singing once from another perch. This caught my attention mainly because even the Phoebes here have been so quiet and unobtrusive for the past few weeks.

From a thicket of small pines and other trees and shrubs, came a buzzy song with a distinctive pattern that I’m almost certain was the song of a Cerulean Warbler. It sang over and over – two or three quick buzzy notes then an even quicker chatter and high note. I listened and watched and tried for several minutes to find the singer – with no luck. Very frustrating – because I’ve never seen a Cerulean Warbler. I’ve listened to the recordings, and this sounded absolutely perfect. But I can’t be sure. There’s always the possibility of wishful thinking.

There definitely were two Northern Parulas singing in two different wooded areas in the neighborhood. Their buzzy, rising trills, with the tripping fall at the end, are familiar and sweet, and it’s only in the past week that I’ve begun to hear them again after the quiet lull of mid summer.

Another song not heard for quite a while until this morning was the slow, burry refrain of a Yellow-throated Vireo, with the three-eight phrase rising from the treetops somewhere along the edge of the woods. In past years, a Yellow-throated Vireo or two have stayed around throughout the summer, but this year I heard their songs only rarely, even in early spring.

Blue-gray Gnatcatchers also have seemed less numerous this summer, but on most days their brisk, whispery spee-spees can be heard here and there. This morning when I stopped to check out several small birds flitting around in a small oak, one turned out to be a silvery-gray, exquisite Blue-gray Gnatcatcher. Against the green background of the tree, its cool, crisp colors, slender, upturned tail, and bright white eye-ring caught the light and it almost looked as if it were made of glass.

The Old Field just outside our neighborhood looks parched and battered by the long very hot summer. Even the kudzu has not spread far and its leaves look limp. The Indigo Bunting and Blue Grosbeak that sang until late July have fallen quiet or maybe even left. I haven’t heard them since we returned from a trip in early August. Several Mockingbirds are active, but not singing; Brown Thrashers occasionally give loud smack calls but are pretty much lying low. But a Gray Catbird whines a loud, rasping meeew from privet thickets, Eastern Towhees call cher-wheee, and this morning for the first time in weeks, a Pine Warbler sang its loose, musical trill from the dense stand of pines and oaks at the south end of the field. A White-eyed Vireo also sang – one of the few birds here, along with Carolina Wrens, that has continued to sing all summer, though this year there seems to be only one White-eyed Vireo, not several as in previous years.

Morning glories have begun to bloom on vines in a roadside ditch by the field – deep purple, pink and white, despite the heat. A very few butterflies flit over the weeds – lemon-yellow Sulphurs, a Buckeye, a burning orange Gulf Fritillary, a low-fluttering Sleepy Orange.

Early this morning, not long after sunrise, the drooping, dark-green leaves on a low-hanging branch of a persimmon tree rustled and out came a sleek brown head, bright eye and long, down-curved yellow bill, and a creamy white throat and neck and breast – a Yellow-billed Cuckoo. In its bill it held a very big fat dark caterpillar, which it slowly ate.

The Cuckoo was only a few feet away from where I stood on the side of a road, and almost at eye level, and it stayed in view, moving around, so close I could see it unusually well  – the dark top of the yellow bill, the pale yellow ring around the dark eye, the soft suede-brown color of the plumage on the back and head, with deep-reddish tinges in the wings, and the long startling tail with big white spots against black, on the under side.

I watched for two or three minutes as it ate the caterpillar and searched the branches and leaves for more, before realizing that there was also a second Yellow-billed Cuckoo in the same tree. For a couple of minutes both were in full view, though just inside the branches of the persimmon tree – which is heavy with fruit – and shaded by its leaves. Both were quiet.

On several days earlier in August I’ve heard the dry, exotic call of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo from somewhere deep in the woods, but this is the first time this year I’ve seen one – and to see them so close and so clear was memorable. Especially that first surprising view as it emerged from the leaves.

The dramatic call of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo is one of the most characteristic sounds of a southern woodland in summer, though the birds are secretive and not often seen, and their presence to me is a vivid example of the diversity of wildlife that still depends on these struggling second-growth woodlands for habitat.

It’s also encouraging that they still can be found here, because unfortunately, populations of Yellow-billed Cuckoos are declining rapidly,* most likely because of fragmentation and loss of the habitat they prefer – open woodlands near creeks or rivers, with clearings and low, dense shrubs and other vegetation. This kind of habitat here is steadily disappearing in the path of urban and suburban development.

*Janice M. Hughes. 1999. Yellow-billed Cuckoo (Coccyzus americanus), The Birds of North America Online (A. Poole, Ed.) Ithaca: Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

A good soaking shower last night helped offset the effects of temperatures near 100 again, so this morning all the trees and grass and other vegetation looked refreshed and amazingly green, given the heat. The air felt fresh and the western half of the sky was soft blue, traced with high, filmy white clouds – though in the east, the sun already was high by mid-morning, bleaching the sky to hazy white.

When I first stepped out the door and stood on the front porch for a minute or two, except for the murmur of one Eastern Bluebird and an indistinct sort of chirping way down in the woods, I could hear no birds at all. Cicadas sang loudly.

Despite the quiet of the morning, as I walked through the neighborhood there seemed to be more activity than usual lately, maybe the first faint signs of a change – or not. I don’t know, but today was the first time in a couple of weeks or more when I’ve been sorry I did not carry binoculars on my walk – it’s been so hot that I’ve not wanted the extra weight, so I’ve been relying on listening, and until today, had not felt I missed much. This morning, though, I caught glimpses of several birds in the foliage or perched in treetops, some flying from one spot to another – and wished I could have gotten a better look.

A Black-and-white Warbler sang in a large thicket of privet, pines, water oaks and other shrubs and vines near the creek, the first time I’ve heard one since mid June. I could just barely see it, creeping its way around the large branches of an oak. A Red-eyed Vireo sang in a wooded area further uphill. And a Gray Catbird gave a raspy, loud meeanh in the old field and flew from the top of a privet bush into another area of thick weeds. Northern Mockingbirds are mostly quiet now, but one sang this morning in the area around a small pond. Others hunted along the roadside, raising their wings to flash the white patches. Brown Thrashers are quiet, and stay mostly out of sight.  A few American Robins forage in open yards. Eastern Bluebirds show their colors, among the most noticeable birds around right now. One Turkey Vulture soared, and appeared to have the whole huge open sky to itself, as far as I could see. Although a few Chimney Swifts usually are around, this morning there were none.

And while many birds are quiet, others are still active and vocal, and their songs and calls come here and there, scattered like splashes of color in a landscape – Eastern Towhees, especially, sing drink-your-tea or cher-weee; Carolina Wrens trill, sing and burble; Chipping Sparrows give dry, small chips and long level trills; Great Crested Flycatchers call whreep or burrrrt. Brown-headed Nuthatches squeak; Northern Cardinal, Carolina Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse sing, chatter and fuss. Red-bellied, Downy and Pileated Woodpeckers rattle and call; Ruby-throated Hummingbirds zoom by with a low, zinging hum. A Red-shouldered Hawk soaring somewhere out of sight cries kee-yer. American Goldfinches often give their flight calls as they pass over, flashing like little yellow lights in the sun. Indigo Bunting, Blue Grosbeak and one White-eyed Vireo continue to sing in the old field. Mourning Doves coo.

Late in the afternoon, near the end of a very hot, sunny day, clouds had grown and gathered and almost covered the blue sky. The back yard felt still, the air humid and warm and mostly quiet at first, except for insects, and the soft, rapid, overlapping pik-a-tuk-tuk-tuk, pik-a-tuk-tuk-tuk calls of two Summer Tanagers. Both were hidden in some pines, screened from view, but they sounded close together and called like this repeatedly for several minutes, one call overlapping another, over and over.

A Carolina Wren sang somewhere down in the woods. And the large, silent black wings of an American Crow rose from a hidden spot among the oaks, followed by another crow. They flew from tree to tree, settled back into the foliage and disappeared. This happened two or three more times, with at least five or six crows around now, and an eerie and ominous feeling about the silent way the black winged forms appeared and moved around. Then a couple more crows arrived and they began to exchange several caws. Two crows flew to the bare branch stubs of a standing dead pine tree, and one of them made a series of some unusual vocal sounds, a variety of short, hoarse, harsh syllables something like kek and ko and krek – though that’s only the vaguest description and they were all strung together in one expression. Neither this crow nor the others seemed agitated, in fact, this one looked down at its own feet as it made these sounds, as if it were talking to itself. After a couple of minutes, it flew to somewhere else.

Meanwhile, the Summer Tanagers continued to call, and an Acadian Flycatcher came unusually far uphill from the creek, and called sharp wheets! for several minutes, moving from place to place among the oaks, sweet gums and dogwoods around the edge of the yard, but staying out of sight in the leaves. A big yellow and black Tiger Swallowtail floated from purple flower to flower in the butterfly bush beside the deck.

When I looked up at the dead pine snag again, at first I looked away, thinking there was another crow sitting there – then I looked back. It was not a crow, but a hawk. A closer look revealed a handsome young Red-shouldered Hawk, with dark brown streaks across the upper chest and on the sides. Its head was turned in profile, as if posing. After only a few minutes, it spread its broad wings and slipped off quietly into the woods and out of sight. The crows seemed to have disappeared, too, after that, and I don’t know if they had been watching the hawk and discussing it or if their presence was just coincidental – they never harassed it the way they would a Red-tailed Hawk.

The Summer Tanagers fell quiet or drifted away. Two Ruby-throated Hummingbirds zipped between the feeder and the branches of nearby oaks. A Scarlet Tanager sang its strident song from very far away in the woods. The songs of cicadas rose and fell.

And then one of the nicest things – a Wood Thrush began to sing from down in the woods along the creek, its fluted notes a cool, relaxing, enchanting music, at the same time rare, and the most natural and fitting way to end a summer day. It sang for several minutes, gradually making its way up the creek, and fading into the distance.

Yesterday morning was mostly cloudy but very warm and humid. I felt as if I’d stepped into a hothouse when I walked out the door and my glasses fogged completely. There was very little breeze, and few bird songs or calls. Very quiet.

A couple of American Robins squeaked and squabbled in the front yard. An Eastern Bluebird muttered a few blurry notes. The tireless Summer Tanager sang from an oak down the street – one of very few birdsongs.

The hollow, echoing coowp calls of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo – from far in the distance – almost sounded like underwater sounds moving through the dense, steamy foliage of the woods. After several of these one-syllable calls, the Cuckoo gave a full dry long call, a series of short, rapid ka-ka-ka-kas, ending in a long, drawn-out cawp-cawp-cawp-cawp-cawp.

A Yellow-billed Cuckoo is one of the most characteristic birds of a southern woodland in summer. Exotic in both appearance and voice, it eats caterpillars and stays mostly in the forest canopy, hidden among the leaves. Slightly larger than a Blue Jay, a Yellow-billed Cuckoo is much more slender, smooth and sleek, with an elegant shape, a creamy-white breast and throat, dark brown back and head, reddish-brown wing edges, a long, down-curved yellow bill, and a spectacular long black tail with large white spots.

Although Yellow-billed Cuckoos are still considered common in the Southeast, its populations are declining dramatically, mostly due to habitat loss and degradation. Here in the woods around our neighborhood this summer, for the first time, I’ve rarely heard a Cuckoo’s call. In previous years, this jungle-like call has been a signature part of most summer days, one of the sounds that makes these woods what they are. So I miss it – the sound and the occasional glimpse of the long black and white tail and the bird, screened among the leaves up high in a tulip poplar tree or an oak, with sunshine filtering through, a sight that always feels like a glimpse into a secret part of woodland life. But it’s part of a woodland community that’s changing steadily here, as in other places, too.

A Yellow-billed Cuckoo is also sometimes called a “Raincrow,” because some people say it calls more frequently on cloudy days – and this morning it was cloudy when I heard it, though unfortunately, no rain ever came.

About 5:30 this afternoon – very hot and sunny, with white clouds in a hazy blue sky – a Mississippi Kite flew over our deck, not far above the trees. It was low enough to see a beautiful view of the soft gray plumage and round white head, long slender wings and darker tail held narrow and long, slightly flared. It did not stay long in view, slipping away out of sight behind the trees toward the southwest.