Birding Notes

On a five-day visit to Acadia National Park in Maine in late July, birding wasn’t our main focus. Most of our time was spent exploring the park – our first visit there – and biking on some of the 45 miles of wide, beautiful carriage roads that wind through it. But we took the scope along and enjoyed the birds we encountered along the way – most notably for me, Black Guillemots and Great Black-backed Gulls along the shore, Common Loons in quiet lakes and ponds surrounded by forest, and Hermit Thrushes singing in the woods in isolated spots along the trails. We also saw Common Eider, two Bald Eagles, and several Osprey, and it was fun to hear the songs of White-throated Sparrows and the calls of Golden-crowned Kinglets and Red-breasted Nuthatches – winter birds for us in Georgia – in their summer homes.

Unfortunately, we were just a few days too late to see the Peregrine Falcons that nested on Precipice Cliff. Park rangers still had scopes set up in the parking lot below the cliff, but the young birds were no longer staying close to the nest, and the popular Precipice Trail had been re-opened for use by hikers the day before we arrived. Although we stopped by three times, just in case, the falcons had not been seen on those days, and we never saw them.

These small, compact oceanic birds – a life bird for me – were everywhere along the coast. Coal-black with a pointed dark bill, neatly upturned tail and white oval patches in the wings, they floated in the waves alone or in the company of many others, often close to shore. When one flew low across the water, it looked diminutive and dark, white flashing in the wings. Once in a while we could see their bright red legs and feet.

We first saw them from a rocky shore along the Ocean Path in the park, a place where we walked far out and sat on flat, sun-warmed pink granite rocks, and looked out over the water. Here there were many Black Guillemots bobbing in the waves and sometimes flying, along with a few Common Eider and Double-crested Cormorants, and Herring and Great Black-backed Gulls flying over and perched on the rocks.

Black Guillemots are members of the Alcid family, which also includes murres, auklets and puffins. They live in the cold waters of the Arctic and far northern Atlantic and polar regions, and nest on rocky shores.

On small quiet lakes surrounded by trees, we watched several Common Loons – one or two at a time – maybe the most characteristic bird of our visit to Maine. Its name seems to me unfortunate, because a “common” loon is one of the most fabled and mythical of birds – large, dark and exquisitely patterned, with a preference for wilderness and solitude, and an aura of mystery. It’s called common because it lives further south than other loons, so is seen by more people.

Late one morning on a warm, sunny day, one Common Loon floated low in the water, not far out from where we stood along the shore, though unfortunately we didn’t have a camera at the time. For several minutes it stayed on the surface, not diving, so we could clearly see its ink-black head, red eye and long, pointed black bill; the black back checkered with white; on its throat, a thin crescent necklace of fine white stripes, and around its neck a wide white collar of stripes. After a few minutes, it began preening, raking its bill through feathers on its breast and under its wings. Four or five times, it rose up out of the water in a flurry of splashing, flapping wings, stretching up to show its pure-white breast and belly in a tall, extended posture that’s apparently part of its bathing routine – sort of shaking off at the end.

Though I listened and hoped, we never heard the call of a loon – an experience that continues to elude me.

A walk around noon today was notable mainly for how very quiet birds were. When I first stepped out the door, I heard not a single bird, only the shrieking of cicadas. It was a pleasant day, sunny and warm, but not nearly as hot as usual for this time of year. Three or four Ruby-throated Hummingbirds zoomed around the feeder and the geraniums in the back yard, and there were the distant, scattered calls of Cardinal, Titmouse and Carolina Wren. But partly because of the time of year, partly the time of day, not much else was happening, with one exception.

A Northern Flicker gave its loud but level pileated-like rattle and flew into some bare branches at the top of a tree where its warm brown back, gray head and bright black bib and red crescent on the back of the neck glowed in the sun.

This morning – a rare cool summer morning, with temperatures in the mid 60s and the air feeling fresh and clean – two Wood Thrushes sang in the same low area of woods around a creek from where I heard one sing a few days ago. A quiet Black-and-white Warbler crept over the limbs of a large pecan tree nearby, on the edge of a thicket, and a Northern Parula was hidden somewhere in the foliage of the same tree, singing.

By 8:30 or so, the sun had already climbed well up into a soft blue sky with patches of broken white clouds rippling out like fish scales, turned by the sunlight into an amazing iridescent array of aqua-green, mauve, pink and salmon. Not quite a rainbow, but the aqua-green color, in particular, was very unusual and pretty.

Birds were more active and vocal than usual lately throughout the neighborhood – just on a morning walk I counted 28 species, even though some of the most common were missing – but the biggest surprise was an Eastern Wood-Pewee, singing its full, languid pee-a-wee – WHEE-ooo song from a small group of trees.

Late this morning as I was coming down the stairs in our front hall, I saw a small black and white bird fluttering around a long, narrow, rectangular window over our front door. It was a female or juvenile Black-and-white Warbler, very slender and pretty, with sharp black and white striping on the head, and black wings with bright white wing bars. It was looking into the window and apparently trying to get through it, repeatedly fluttering up against the glass and moving all along the length of the window. It did not appear to be foraging for spiders or insects, but just trying to get through the glass – and most frustrated at this invisible barrier to wherever it wanted to go.

Not easily discouraged, the little warbler fluttered up again and again for more than five minutes, I think, maybe as long as ten. Several times it stopped and tilted its head, as if studying the situation and trying to figure this out. Then it would fly up again, trying every spot along the way before it finally gave up, turned its back on the impassable glass and flew away.

This is a small window, and I’ve never known of a bird flying into it, but maybe from the right position they can see through it and through the kitchen windows on the other side of the house – outside of which are flowering plants and ferns on the deck, and trees beyond that.

Although we usually have several Black-and-white Warblers here during the summer, this year I have not heard or seen any since the spring, until now. So it was fun to see this one, and particularly interesting to watch its persistence and puzzlement, its attempts to solve the mystery, and eventual deduction that this just wasn’t going to work.

This afternoon, in the hottest part of a hot, sunny, humid day, six American Crows gathered in the grass around a spot on the edge of our driveway. They sat low down on the grass, bellies to the ground, with wings spread. One or two stayed down like this for several minutes, occasionally lifting a wing or wiggling on the ground. Others on the ground stayed with wings spread out for a shorter time. When they stood up, some stood nearby on the grass and shook their wings, preened or raked a bill through their feathers, others flew to nearby trees to do the same. Later we checked the spot and, indeed, found a nest of black ants.

A group of six or seven Crows has been spending a lot of time around the yard – I don’t know if these were the same ones or different. They often visit one of the birdbaths in the morning. Sometimes all six or seven of them crowd onto the rim in a circle to drink, but they take turns bathing, one at a time, then strut around in the grass, shaking and preening.

This morning – another in a string of pleasantly cool early mornings, with blue sky and rumpled white clouds – a Mockingbird was singing from its usual perch on a wire overlooking the old field. Most of the Mockingbirds in the neighborhood have fallen quiet now, but this one still sings enthusiastically – including the sounds of red-tailed hawk, blue grosbeak, wood thrush, white-eyed vireo and bluebird, as well as others. Two Mourning Doves sat on a wire. A Blue Grosbeak was singing from the far north end of the field, and one silent Red-tailed Hawk sat on a pole overlooking the highway.

I heard the chick-a-perioo-chick of a White-eyed Vireo, as often, and just happened to catch a glimpse of it flying out to catch an insect on the edge of a thick growth of trees and vines. It was too far away to see well – not much more than a little gray bird – but it was singing as it moved.

Then I heard a hoarse chet-chet-chet-chet for the first time this summer – and again was just lucky to see a flash of bright yellow-gold – a Yellow-breasted Chat. It was closer than the Vireo, moving around on the outside of a thicket, so I could also see the pure-white belly and white spectacles.

Because there seemed to be an unusual amount of activity in the field, I watched for a few minutes, and found a quiet Gray Catbird lurking in the weeds and vines – for the first time this summer.

Both a male and a female Blue Grosbeak flew from shrub to shrub at the edge of the power cut, calling bright chink! notes. Two Blue-gray Gnatcatchers flashed silver as they flitted in and out of bushes.

An Eastern Towhee was singing its tink-tink-tink song again, both from the field and from a perch on the wire, toward the southern end of the field. He didn’t seem disturbed by my standing right below him to listen. The song begins with a trilled, downward chee-ur, then a sharp, quick tink-tink-tink.

Seeing the Yellow-breasted Chat and the Gray Catbird – both of which I had not seen or heard this season until today – makes me think these birds are not just suddenly here. I think I’ve just been distracted and not observant enough to see or hear them recently. Too much lost in thought and not paying enough attention to what’s around me.

A juvenile Red-tailed Hawk and one or two mature Red-tailed Hawks sit on top of utility poles overlooking the old field and Highway 441 almost every morning lately. They’ve been there regularly for about the last three weeks, usually sitting on separate poles or sometimes in nearby trees, the juvenile often giving its high, hoarse scream. As the day warms up, they leave their perches, circle up and soar, and the young one continues to call.

This morning one of the adults perched on a pole as usual, its breast looking silvery-white in the bright sunlight, with the streaks of a broken-brown bar across the breast and brown, hooded head. The juvenile sat on a wire right beside it, a darker, more mottled brown and white.

Early this morning a Wood Thrush was singing in the woods just around the corner, not far from a creek. I’ve rarely heard their song this summer, so the beautiful fluted notes drifting out of the dark green trees felt like a gift.

The morning was fresh and cool, with a blue and white sky. A Northern Parula sang from trees around our house, a Scarlet Tanager from its usual territory in the treetops of the woods across the street, and a Summer Tanager from deeper in the woods, pretty far away. A Red-eyed Vireo gave its nasal, complaining call. A Chipping Sparrow sang a long, light, level trill from the top of a very small pine. A Ruby-throated Hummingbird zipped over my head into a thicket of shrubs.

A Great-crested Flycatcher – with lemon-yellow belly, long cinnamon tail and gray head with crest erect – perched in a tall tulip poplar and called breet. It was answered by another – and another, all close together. At least four Great-crested Flycatchers called back and forth to each other and moved around in the leaves of the tulip poplar and some oaks.