Birding Notes

Wow. A brilliantly colorful Yellow-throated Warbler just spent several minutes in a water oak tree in our front yard. It looked magical. The sun had just come out after a thunder shower and briefly heavy rain, the clouds had passed quickly, leaving deep blue sky and new-green leaves wet and dripping, and a chilly wind was blowing – and there, among the leaves and catkins of the oak moved a sleek, slender, little gray bird with a long thin bill, and stunning black and white markings, and a bright yellow throat that blazed in the sunlight. It crept over the branches of the oak, probing into the bark and crevices and among the leaves and catkins.

Its head and back looked dark bluish-gray, its face was marked with a broad white stripe above the eye, and black around the eye and down the cheek, and a striking white patch on the side of the neck. Its belly was white, with dark streaks on the sides – and the yellow throat shined.

It looked as if it had gathered the gray clouds, wind and rain, with the clearing sky and glistening sun of the past few minutes together, and reshaped them into the form of a bird.

The highlights of a cool, showery April morning here included our first-of-the-season White-eyed Vireo, the continuing songs of a Yellow-throated Vireo, Northern Parula and Black-and-white Warbler, the somewhat unusual tink-tink-tink song or call of an Eastern Towhee, a flock of at least 86 Cedar Waxwings, and an Eastern Phoebe singing and giving its chatter-call from the spot on a gutter pipe over our garage where Phoebes nested successfully last year.

Early in the morning, in soft sunlight before the clouds moved in, the Parula’s rising buzz and the Yellow-throated Vireo’s throaty but clear, four-phrase musical notes stood out among the confusion of birdsong all around – the loose, shimmering trills of Yellow-rumped Warblers, the squeaky-wheel song of a Black-and-white Warbler, and the rapid, jubilant bursts of song from Ruby-crowned Kinglets. Carolina Wrens, Cardinals, Mockingbirds, Brown Thrasher, Pine Warbler, Chipping Sparrows, Phoebes, Titmice, Chickadees and one cheery Robin sang, a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher called spee-spee, and woodpeckers drummed. A Mourning Dove cooed. Chimney Swifts chittered, passing overhead. The Louisiana Waterthrush was missing this morning, or maybe I was just out at the wrong times.

A Pileated Woodpecker gave its cuk-cuk-cuk call from down in the woods, and a Red-shouldered Hawk cried kee-yer from behind the screen of trees to the east.

The old field up near Highway 441 was a tangle of sound, as well as a tangle of new green, weedy growth. No Black-and-white Warbler there this morning – but Mockingbirds, Brown Thrasher, Eastern Towhee, Cardinal and Carolina Chickadee all were singing, and Blue Jays called. Among the various birdsong, plus the noise of traffic from the nearby highway, I could just barely hear the percussive chick-a-peri-oo-chick of a White-eyed Vireo – finally! They seem to be a little later than usual arriving here this year – this is still only the first one I’ve heard around our neighborhood, though they’ve been reported other places nearby.

I also heard the possible call of a Yellow-breasted Chat in the field – but the familiar, harsh chet-chet-chet-chet-chet might have come from a Mockingbird, I can’t be sure. A Yellow-breasted Chat often used to stay for the summer in or near the field, but the past year or two I’ve only found them passing through, here for a day or two at most.

Eastern Towhees are singing drink-your-tea all through the neighborhood, and in the old field, one was singing a version of its song or call that includes an emphatic tink-tink-tink! at the end. I have not been able to find any other descriptions of this song but have heard it in previous springs – it begins with a garbled trill and ends with three very crisp, distinct notes all on the same pitch.

In three pecan trees with tiny new leaves, but still pretty bare-looking, several dozen Cedar Waxwings perched and called their high, hissing tseeees – I counted 86 waxwings, and there probably were more. They mostly were just sitting, not eating, clustered tightly in three main groups with others scattered around them, the wind ruffling the feathers in their crests. I kept finding more and more, the longer I looked.

One White-throated Sparrow whistled its sweet, plaintive song, and others fed quietly under shrubs – while at least two foraged in the tops of water oaks among new green leaves and catkins. Two Turkey Vultures soared below the gathering clouds, and one Black Vulture hunched on top of a utility pole, looking as if it was hoping for more promising weather.

By noon, a light rain was falling, and by late afternoon, a harder, more serious rain – very welcome after many days of unseasonably hot, dry, sunny weather.

Today was another in a stretch of unseasonably warm spring days, sunny, hazy with pollen, with temperatures in the upper 80s or 90 by afternoon. But the mornings are cool and pretty and bright with birdsong, with green leaves now opening on just about all the trees, even the white oaks, and dogwoods blooming like lacy clouds all through the woods. It’s the time of year when almost every day brings something new – with summer birds arriving, winter birds leaving and migrants passing through. It would be hard to stay inside at all if it weren’t already getting so hot by midday.

A Louisiana Waterthrush continues to sing along the creek in the woods behind our house, and a Northern Parula sings from the edge of the woods nearby. Black-and-white Warblers and Blue-gray Gnatcatchers arrived some time last week – I heard and saw the first ones on Friday, April 2 – and today a Black-and-White Warbler has been singing from trees all around the back yard – a squeaky, high, unmusical but pleasant song. Blue-gray Gnatcatchers have seemed uncharacteristically elusive so far, but I do hear their spee-spee calls here and there.

Chimney Swifts also arrived some time late last week, and yesterday morning for the first time I saw three as they chittered and swept overhead.

Yesterday morning I also heard the song of a Yellow-throated Vireo for the first time this spring – a burry, rich, four-phrase song, musical and expressive. It may have arrived over the weekend, when we were not here. So far it hasn’t come close enough to see, staying hidden in the woods.

There’s also the rusty jingle and creak of too many Brown-headed Cowbirds around. I heard several just today, in different spots in the neighborhood.

Meanwhile, our winter birds are drifting away, though it’s hard to tell for sure when they’ve gone. I haven’t seen or heard a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, Dark-eyed Junco or Hermit Thrush since late March. But White-throated sparrows, Yellow-rumped Warblers and Ruby-crowned Kinglets still are here – all singing – and lots of Cedar Waxwings.

The day began with the buzzy, summery song of a Northern Parula around the edges of the woods. The morning was cool, sunny, colorful and full of birdsong, and the Parula’s rising zzzzzzzhhhh-ip! that trips over and falls at the end was the highlight. It even came to a low branch right over my head to sing for a few minutes – a charming little wood warbler with blue-gray head, yellow throat and breast, and a mottled dark-coral band across its chest. Of all the returning neotropical migrants, the Northern Parula seems to me the one that sings most alluringly of the tropics and of warm air and sun and forest-filtered light, of rippling creeks and dense green leaves. It almost seems to bring spring with it. During breeding season it’s at home in forests with streams or wetlands throughout much of the eastern U.S. and into Canada, and it doesn’t winter as far south as many other migrants – still, it always makes me think of the low country, live oaks and tropical breezes, and it does prefer bottomland forests, using Spanish moss or beard moss for its nest.

Meanwhile, two Louisiana Waterthrush continue to sing along the creek, especially early in the mornings. The wheezy songs of Blue-gray Gnatcatchers and Black-and-white Warblers are still rumors in the trees for me – I hear them but haven’t yet seen one. Ruby-crowned Kinglets sing their elaborate, neat little songs, White-throated Sparrows whistle plaintive, heart-breaking come-a-way-with-me, on the brink of leaving for the north. And all the year-round residents seem to be singing. An Eastern Phoebe, Carolina Wren and Northern Cardinal usually are among the earliest around our yard, then Tufted Titmouse, Carolina Chickadee, Pine Warbler, American Goldfinch, Northern Mockingbird, Brown Thrasher, Eastern Bluebird, Eastern Towhee, American Robin, House Finch. Woodpeckers drum and rattle. Mourning Doves coo. A small flock of Cedar Waxwings sprays high, thin calls from hidden spots in a stand of pines.

Chipping Sparrows sing a delicate string of chipper-chipper-chipper-chipper that I think is one of the prettiest songs, when heard close by, though so often they’re described as mechanical and dry – at this time of year they can sing with an airy, musical touch.

Early this afternoon in sunny, unseasonably warm weather, a Brown Creeper appeared in the trees around our back yard and edge of the woods. I first saw it as it flew to the trunk of a white oak beside our deck, and watched as it crept quickly, straight up the trunk, then around it halfway and up further. Apparently finding nothing of interest in the bark of the oak, it flew to the trunk of a pine and again crept straight up, then to another pine, and from there it flew deeper into the woods and out of sight.

A small, slender bird with blurry-streaked brown and white back, a rather long, dull-brown tail, creamy white underneath, and a thin, down-curved bill, its shape is sleek, but its coloring looked like a crumpled brown leaf, a leftover piece of the winter scene, tossing from tree to tree, attaching itself like an insect and blending in with the bark, and moving insect-like on short, hidden legs. The edges of its wings looked very dark, almost black and white. It was quiet, not singing or calling.

It’s the first Brown Creeper I’ve seen here in two or three years, though I’ve watched and listened for them all winter long – so it’s funny now to see one in early spring, probably passing through on its way north. Secretive birds by nature, in recent years creepers have become even harder to find around here, so it came as an unexpected and delightful surprise, a last glimpse of winter.

And it’s not an April-fool – it was real.

Our last day on Kiawah was rainy all day, except for a short break of about an hour just before noon, when I headed out to the beach. It was beautiful. A low, stormy gray sky, gray-green water, and only three or four other people as far as I could see. Not many birds, either, but a few. Brown Pelicans, a Cormorant, Ring-billed Gulls, Herring Gulls and one Laughing Gull flew over. Forster’s Terns still flew and hovered over the edge of the waves. Dolphins swam just offshore, dark arcs that rose and disappeared.

A Black-bellied Plover foraged around tidal pools, with a solitary Ruddy Turnstone that stayed right with it, though a few feet away. When the Plover flew, the Turnstone flew, and settled near it again. Six Piping Plovers skittered over the sand nearby. Two of them were coming into breeding plumage, with a thin, broken black band around the neck.

And one Red Knot fed on the edge of the surf for a long time. It took me a while to figure out what it was, because it was alone and not in a flock. Watching it long enough to get a very good look, fairly close, I could even see a pale cinnamon color emerging on the speckled breast, though it was still mostly gray all over. It fed by probing fast and steadily in the sand as it moved, intent on its work. At a different spot along the beach, two more Red Knots flew in and fed along the edge of the waves in much the same way. Maybe there was a larger flock nearby.

The rain began to fall harder, and by late afternoon and evening had become a deluge that lasted all night.

In addition to the missing Osprey nest nearby, highlights around the Willet Pond on Kiawah included a fine Gray Catbird sitting among brown marsh grass, and several Red-winged Blackbirds, whose shoulder patches gleamed very bright, glistening red. At least three dozen Pied-billed Grebes were scattered over the pond, floating in small groups here and there. Two American Coots swam in and out of tall grasses. Many White Ibis fed in the grass, mostly screened from view, but visible now and then, and at least one Glossy Ibis. A Great Blue Heron, a Great Egret, and one Little Blue Heron – dark purplish-gray-blue – stalked in water and grass not far away, and several Tri-colored Herons emerged in spots all over the pond and marsh. A couple of Forster’s Terns flashed over – we saw a lot of them this trip. They seemed to be everywhere, which was fine with me. No matter how many times I see them, they never lose their magic.

Just as we turned to leave, a plump, compact bird with a brownish, streaked back, stubby little upturned tail and a long thin orange bill swam out of a clump of grass on the edge of the pond near where I stood, and disappeared into another grassy patch. A Clapper Rail – I think. I’ve never before seen one so close and so clearly. Once again, I’m not completely sure – it might have been a King Rail – but other reports from this same pond in recent days have mentioned a Clapper, so I’m thinking that must have been what it was. I’ve heard them many times, but never had such a vivid, though very brief, view.

Does it matter if it was a King Rail or a Clapper? A Short-billed Dowitcher or a Long-billed? Well, yes and no. I’d like to know for sure, and I keep trying to learn more and to be more observant, but so often in birding it just doesn’t happen. You see a bird – then it’s gone, and there’s no instant replay. You’ll never know for sure. Though I try to get it right, it’s not the certainty that I enjoy – but almost exactly the opposite. The worlds of possibility, the challenge, the surprises, the reminder to appreciate how much we do not know – for me this is the pleasure and the point. The glimpses of something seen, but not captured or held, give birding its breath and spirit – as well as its frustrations – and make it not a static, knowable, countable thing, but an always fresh and somewhat mysterious joy. And there’s always next time.

One of the places we visited each day on Kiawah March 8-11 was the site of an Osprey nest in a pine, where last year a Great Horned Owl had taken over the nest in March, but the Ospreys returned in June. This time we were sorry to find the nest gone – but a pair of Ospreys perched in the tree where it had been. A few remains of the nest could be seen on one branch, but the large bulk of it was gone, maybe fallen in a storm. The Osprey pair seemed distressed that it wasn’t there and uncertain of what to do.

While we were there, we watched as one flew in several times with a branch and tried to find a spot for it, presumably trying to start a new nest. They didn’t have any luck on the few days we were there. Each time, the Osprey bringing a stick flew in with it, sometimes perched, tried it out in different spots, then flew away with it again, giving up for the time.

I’ve so far been unable to reach anyone with the Kiawah Island Nature Program, but I hope to find out more about what happened to the nest – and whether or not this pair can start a new one this year.

The first four photos here show the Ospreys March 8 of this year, perched in the tree and bringing a stick to the spot where the nest used to be, and one Osprey in flight. The Great Horned Owl sits in the old nest in March of last year; and the last photo shows an Osprey bringing a stick to the old nest last year in June. CLICK on each photo to see it larger.

Late one morning last week, toward the eastern end of the beach on Kiawah Island, a young Bald Eagle stood on the edge of the surf, near low tide, a long way across the sand from where I had just walked out on a path through the dunes. It was so far away, and so big that at first I thought it was a person bending over. When I took a closer look and saw an eagle, it made me take a sharp breath in. It was mostly dark brown, but with a lot of white speckling, and its head was partially mottled white with a dark eyestripe – so I think it was a third-year immature. Its legs looked very thick with brown feathers and its head and bill impressively large and strong. It stood on the sand with waves lapping around its feet, just at the edge of the surf, putting its head down again and again and tearing up big chunks of something. The main impression I had while watching it was simply and purely how big it was. Amazing. I couldn’t figure out what it was eating – I thought maybe some kind of large fat fish.

I walked toward it very gradually, stopping to watch several times over a period of several minutes, not wanting to scare it away, if possible. Then I finally turned to head on up the beach, still without getting too close. Soon after I did, it lifted its wings and flew over me, low and not far, to a perch in the dunes where it sat, facing toward me. So then I walked over to see what it had been eating – and it turned out to be, of all things, a dead possum.

When I came back down the beach an hour or more later, the half-eaten possum still lay there, the tide further out, but no eagle, no gulls, or any other birds in sight.

I never carry a camera myself. For me, it’s a distraction. Almost all the pictures here on this site, Clate took – so it’s really nice when he’s along. But in this case, all I have is words to try to capture how very impressive the young eagle was.

This was one of three Bald Eagles we saw last week on Kiawah. The other two included another immature and one magnificent adult with gleaming white head and tail that circled low over where I stood on the bank of a lagoon. All three were quiet. I never heard them call.

The tide was far out and still receding as I walked further east on the beach, coming to a long, deep tidal pool that lay between me and the edge of the waves. Beyond it on a stretch of wet sand well above the waves sat two American Oystercatchers, conspicuous with their big bold patterns of black, brown and white, and long, bright, almost shimmering red-orange bills. Funny how they can look, at the same time, so comical and so regal. Though I watched for a while, they stayed settled down on the beach, not standing or moving around. Usually when I’ve seen Oystercatchers before, they’ve been both very active and vocal, but these were quiet. When I walked back by them later, they were still there in the same spot, contentedly settled, soaking up the warm morning sun.

Still further up the beach, the dunes on my left receded and I discovered a great spot. Beyond the ripple marks of high tide on the sand lay a large depression hiding a series of shallow tidal pools. In them and on the sand and muddy flats around them were dozens of shorebirds, and in the distance stretched islands of grasses and sand, and more dunes.

Dowitchers and Dunlins fed in the shallow water of the pools. Sanderlings, Willets and Semi-palmated Plovers foraged on the sand and edges of the water. Two Black-bellied Plovers – widely separated – each patrolled a stretch of sand. One Lesser Yellowlegs danced gracefully in water on the edge of a pool. Forster’s Terns fluttered like flashes of white light over the water, and two Ospreys flew over several times, back and forth from somewhere they were fishing. Among the grasses in the distance were a Snowy Egret, a Tri-colored Heron, and a Great Egret.

The two Black-bellied Plovers – relatively tall, long-legged plovers that stand erect, with head held high, were still mostly in grayish winter plumage, but were beginning to look a little more intensely black and white. A couple of times one flew up a short way and back, showing the black patch under the wings. Both spent most of their time trying to keep all of the other birds, especially the other plovers, off their stretches of sand – for the most part unsuccessfully. The smaller birds kept venturing back, and the Black-bellied Plovers spent more time chasing them away again than feeding.

The Dowitchers – plump, medium-size grayish sandpipers (in winter) with very long bills – kept their heads mostly down, often submerged, probing and feeding intently, though two or three paused very briefly to preen. I couldn’t figure out if they were long-billed or short-billed Dowitchers and never heard their calls – the only way I might have been able to tell for sure. My best guess is Short-billed, because they are said to be more likely on the beach, rather than in fresh water – but it’s only a guess.

The lone Lesser Yellowlegs – a slender sandpiper with long yellow legs – moved with quick, crisp movements, delicate and distinct, with a thin, spindly grace, an airiness about it – quite different from the more businesslike and stocky Dowitchers.

Shorebirds – especially all the sandpipers – are always a challenge to me, and just pure fun. It seems I have to learn half of them all over again every time I get to the beach or the marsh. But each time I see them, they become a little more familiar, and a little more of the different personality of each comes to life. They’re a little like sparrows – so much alike at first glance that it’s tempting not even to try, but then as you get to know them, so different you wonder why you didn’t see it to begin with.

As I headed back toward home, passing again the long tidal pool between me and the distant edge of the waves at low tide, an Osprey stood deep in the water of the pool, bathing. It sat there for minutes at a time, just looking around, in water halfway up its wings, now and then dunking its head and whole body, thrashing the wings – taking a good long leisurely bath. I tried to keep my distance and walk slowly, still thinking it would probably fly, but it didn’t seem disturbed at all and only left the water and flew, with a big swoosh and splash, when I was well past it.