Birding Notes

Several Blue Jays flew into the trees, and began to give loud and convincing imitations of the cries of both Red-tailed Hawk and Red-shouldered Hawk. They did this many times, first the Red-tail’s cry, and then switching to the Red-shoulder’s kee-yer, and I wondered why. It sounded as if one of them started it, and one or two others joined in, and they went back and forth, taking turns, practicing or competing or just having fun. I don’t know. But they really were pretty good.

The simple, musical trill of a Pine Warbler may be much more than it seems.

With their sunny yellow throat and breast, Pine Warblers bring a welcome wash of color to the drab winter landscape. And now they’re bringing warm, spring-like music to the bare woods, too, in songs with a subtle and somewhat surprising variety of slightly different sounds.

Because Pine Warblers are fairly common here year-round, it’s easy to hear their songs as just a sort of background music, all sounding pretty much alike. But this year we’ve had an unusually large number in our neighborhood, and I can often hear two or three singing in different directions at the same time, and even more further down the road – so I’ve begun to notice and to listen more closely for their different voices and different expressions.

Usually described as a simple, loose, musical trill, the song of a Pine Warbler can sound soft, languid and lyrical; or more mellow and rich; like a delicate, pretty rattle; or a somewhat insistent purr. Occasionally it’s almost a dry monotone, like a Chipping Sparrow; more often, it’s a fluctuating, pulsing, floating warble – though in all of the variations, it’s still a recognizable Pine Warbler’s trill.

This morning I listened to two Pine Warblers singing at the same time, in different directions from where I stood. One sang from the pines in the old field. Its song was a classic sweet trill, but at the end of each trill, it dropped down to a lower pitch, just for a couple of notes. The Pine Warbler in the other direction sang a slower, more fluctuating series of notes with a sensual, pulsating rhythm – still a trill, but a quite different effect.

I don’t know how much the differences reflect different meanings or moods, and how much they reflect the voices and inflections of individual birds. From what I’ve been able to learn so far, it seems to be some of both.

The species account in Birds of North America Online notes that Pine Warblers are known to have more than one song type and may alternate types during periods of singing. Songs may vary in speed or frequency, and sometimes males sing two-parted songs, with trills of different frequencies and other variations. Beyond this, it says, little is known about their repertoire and delivery of songs.*

* Paul G. Rodewald, James H. Withgott and Kimberly G. Smith. 1999. Pine Warbler (Dendroica pinus), The Birds of North America Online (A. Poole, Ed.) Ithaca: Cornell Lab of Ornithology.

Mid-February mornings begin with more and more birdsong. Though the morning chorus still is somewhat muted and easy-going – not the full-throated urgency of spring – Pine Warbler, Eastern Bluebird, Carolina Wren, Eastern Phoebe, Northern Cardinal, Carolina Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse and House Finch all are singing and a few woodpeckers are drumming. At least one Brown Thrasher and one Northern Mockingbird have begun to sing in the neighborhood, though not those around our own yard. The Mockingbird was singing today from a perch low in a bush, almost hidden – like the Brown Thrasher. It sang a typically fast-paced, accomplished song, but kept it low and rather quiet.

The first thing I saw when I stepped out the front door this morning was a pair of Eastern Bluebirds sitting possessively on and near the bluebird box. The female sat on top of the box, and the male perched in low branches of a water oak very close by. It seems pretty early for nesting, but they looked as if they might at least be considering the spot.

Meanwhile, our winter birds remain – the Pine Siskins continue to call their breezy wintery zhreeees from the high bare branches of oaks and sweet gums, and to gobble up birdseed as fast as I can keep it in the feeder; Dark-eyed Juncos feeding in the grass burst up into the trees when startled, calling out in soft jingles of alarm.

Several Golden-crowned Kinglets seemed active this morning, including one with a yellow crown, held flat, calling ti-ti-ti, ti-ti-ti from low in some oaks near the roadside, where it was easy to see, moving quickly over the branches, spending a little time in a cluster of dry brown leaves, then flying.  Because I haven’t seen them often lately, I enjoyed just watching it, and listening to the high, small, almost whispered call that seems to fit so well with its flitting, sprite-like behavior, and its appearance – the crisp little shape, neat white and charcoal wing-bars against a pale gray body, and sharp white-and-black striped pattern of the face.

Late this afternoon, the place to be was a messy-looking roadside thicket of privet and other shabby shrubs and weeds, all draped with withered brown kudzu vines. In the midst of the weeds stand several struggling, broken old oaks, with thick, sturdy trunks but scarred and hacked with holes, and many of the larger limbs torn off.

In a clear, soft blue sky with high traces of white clouds, a filmy gibbous moon was rising in the east, still a few days short of full. In the other direction, a bright sun was sinking low, and for several minutes, its light reached this bramble of an overgrown old grove and lit it in a warm rosy glow – and the place was full of birds.

Several bright red, peeping Northern Cardinals flew from perch to perch. At least four black, red-orange and white Eastern Towhees competed for space in the branches of one old oak. Dozens of American Robins rustled under the shrubs and squeaked, and one even tried a few bars of its cheer-up, cheerily, cheer-up song. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet called jidit-jidit. Two Eastern Phoebes flew from spot to spot. The tseet calls of White-throated Sparrows and their scratching and rustling filled the bushes, and a few came out briefly into view.

Four Mourning Doves and two Northern Mockingbirds sat quietly on wires overhead, and from the old field across the road, a Carolina Wren sang a loud and beautiful che-wortle, che-wortle, che-wortle.

A female Yellow-bellied Sapsucker clung to the trunk of one of the oaks, richly colored, with crimson crown, white and black-striped face, white throat, large white slash on the side, and buffy-charcoal-white barring, and even a subtle dull-yellow showing on the belly.

Yellow flashed like a flash of light, as a slender bird hawked an insect. It dropped to a high, bare oak branch, clear against the sky – an exquisite Cedar Waxwing. It sat facing the very low sun, with a sleek black mask and feathery cinnamon crest, its breast soft, velvety brown and belly pure smooth yellow, and the tip of its tail a glimmering yellow-gold. It appeared to be alone – I could hear or see no others around, though I think there must have been some, somewhere near. I stood watching it for several seconds, and it seemed maybe longer than it was, struck especially by the smooth, silky, polished look of its plumage.

Later, I looked for more information about Cedar Waxwing feathers and what gives their plumage this moth-smooth silky appearance, but so far I’ve found no explanation, though this distinctive look is often noted. This one was spectacular, especially because of the dramatic setting and lighting.

And then – turning attention from the clear, colorful light in a treetop back to the murky tangles of the thicket – a dark shadow emerged and hopped up to the top of a bush – a Gray Catbird. What a surprise! All sleek, slate-gray with an ink-black cap, it sat with its tail slightly held up, erect and alert, looking around, and even mewed once. Then it flew to another spot, a low branch in an oak, and stayed there for several seconds before diving back out of sight into the weeds.

It might have wintered here, but if so, it’s been very quiet and reclusive. It’s certainly the first one I’ve seen or heard here all winter. In general, Catbirds here seem to move at least a little further south, then reappear early each spring. But I really don’t know. Either way, it was fun to see and nice to know it’s there.

On a warm, sunny, spring-like morning, a profusion of tiny bluets bloomed among the stubbly, dry brown grass along the roadside, and a Brown Thrasher sang – the first one I’ve heard singing this year.

The shy bluets only showed up when I walked right by them, almost through them – invisible from further away, very common small wild flowers, each with four pale blue petals and a sunburst-yellow center, satiny and warm, all together like a filmy cloud floating over the rough winter ground.

It took me several minutes to find the Thrasher, screened by a tangle of water oak limbs and weedy shrubs. He was perched in an oak, but only about halfway up, not at the top, and after a minute or two, I realized that there were two Thrashers singing, back and forth, not far away from each other. Their songs both sounded a little slow and rusty, with longer than usual pauses between the phrases, and sort of casual and easy, not too competitive yet. But – along with Pine Warblers, Eastern Bluebirds, Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice and Northern Cardinals, all singing, too – it’s beginning to sound like spring.

It’s been a long, unusually cold winter here, and it’s far from over yet, but it looks like the week ahead will be mostly warm and sunny.

By noon today, the wind had become strong and gusty, swinging the bird feeders in our front yard back and forth, ringing the wind chimes, and rushing through the pines and dry leaves still clinging to some of the oaks. The warm air felt restless and strange. Turkey Vultures and Black Vultures soared, and a Red-tailed Hawk sailed low over the treetops and then up fast, riding the wind. Small birds seemed mostly to be staying in the shelter of shrubs, but Pine Siskins called zhreeeee from somewhere high in a mixed stand of pines and young oaks, American Goldfinch mewed, Yellow-rumped Warblers flung out check notes as they flew, Brown-headed Nuthatches squeaked, and a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker clung to the trunk of a pecan tree and tapped steadily.

The conkaree song of a very few Red-winged Blackbirds could be heard, and this morning there seemed to be fewer Robins around than there have been most days lately.

This morning we awoke to the glitter of sunshine on soft white snow. A light snowfall during the night left maybe an inch or two, at most, covering the ground and powdering the tops of bushes and lining the branches of bare-limbed trees. Trees in the woods looked especially pretty, encased in sparkling, icy snow.

It was a brief, bright frosting – by mid morning snow was dripping down from the trees, and by mid afternoon it was almost all gone. But before then, I went out for a walk, to enjoy the snow while it lasted. The feeders in the front yard were busy with small birds – lots of American Goldfinches and Pine Siskins – together they’re going through a lot of birdseed every day lately; helped by Downy Woodpeckers, Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, Chipping Sparrows, House Finches, a pair of Northern Cardinals, and a Carolina Wren or two. Pine Warblers were singing, and coming to the feeders now and then, too.

At least a hundred and probably more American Robins were scattered out on the ground and in the trees, scratching and rustling and calling out in startled squeaks. Mourning Doves, Dark-eyed Juncos and White-throated Sparrows fed more quietly underneath the feeders. Up in one corner of the yard, a Hermit Thrush scratched around with several Robins, looking thin and pale brown, almost insubstantial among the big, sturdy black and red-breasted birds – though with bold spots on its upper breast and a lively manner, the skinny Hermit was much more active than the solid Robins; it moved quickly, lightly across the ground in spurts, head up and alert.

A Goldfinch came to the birdbath for water, and seemed unbothered to find it frozen solid. It slipped out onto the ice, only a little unsteady, and leaned down with its head turned to one side to scoop water from the surface where some had already melted, splashing up a spray of drops each time it drank.

The most noticeable birds as I walked through the neighborhood, though, were Eastern Bluebirds – they seemed to have come into bloom everywhere. Three blue, blue males with rose-orange breasts perched in a small, bare-limbed tree in one yard as I walked past, stunning against a clear blue sky and white snow all around.

A little further on, a small mixed flock of Eastern Bluebirds and warm-yellow Pine Warblers foraged in open patches of brown grass, where the snow had already melted. And at several spots along the road, Bluebirds flew, flashing their colors. I don’t think there were more than usual, really, but the reflective brilliance of the snow and unusually dry, clear air lit everything with unusual clarity.

A Red-tailed Hawk, for instance, came sailing low overhead as I was watching a column of about a dozen Black Vultures soaring and circling upward. Its cream-white, shining shape made me catch my breath, partly because it came so suddenly into view, more because I could see it with such clear detail – the widespread wings, whitish breast and underside, streaked band across the belly, brown hood, and the darker brown of the back and top side of the wings, the dull red-orange of the tail, with the touch of white at the base.

Further along the way, I heard the squeaky calls of Brown-headed Nuthatch, and the jidit-jidit of Ruby Crowned Kinglet. Two quiet Northern Flickers flushed up from a yard into the trees. Red-bellied Woodpeckers called their spring-time quuurrrr. And I passed another gathering of Goldfinches and Siskins in some treetops, mewing and calling zhreeeeeeee. With a much louder, richer, deeper mew, a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker flew to the trunk of a pecan tree and immediately began working its holes. Its crimson throat and crown glistened.

Two Field Sparrows flitted out of privet bushes in the same spot where I saw one a few days ago, scratching in the leaves there with White-throated Sparrows and Eastern Towhees.

Near the top of a hill in one heavily wooded area, the luminous coppery leaves of many young beech trees showed up particularly well among the bare limbs of the oaks, tulip poplars and other hardwoods and rustled in a light breeze. The beeches there are mostly young, scattered around a couple of homes there and deeper into the woods, where the land slopes down toward a creek.  I don’t think I’d ever appreciated how many there were in this spot, and it looked like an abundance of riches to me, to have so many beech trees around.

In an eloquent column about beech trees in the Athens Banner-Herald only a couple of weeks ago (January 23), Holli Richey captured some of their partiular allure. “With snow still dotting the ground, and a light breeze in the air, I knew it was a perfect day to listen to the beech trees,” she wrote. “The American beech (Fagus grandifolia) is one of our most useful native trees. At the top of my list for its uses is the calming rustle the shivering, paper-thin, curled winter leaves make as the wind passes through the beech’s open and cascading branches.”