While sometimes they’re hard to find at all, Little Blue Herons seemed to be almost everywhere on this trip. One perched in a tangle of branches on the edge of a canal – its head and neck a smoky rose-blue, its back and wings slate blue. We also saw several immature Little Blue Herons – all white, with a long, gray, dark-tipped bill and greenish legs.
Tri-colored Herons, with their contrasting colors and animated behavior were fun to watch as they foraged in several shallow ponds around the island, often raising their wings, lunging, or turning sharply as they hunted for fish.
Three Greater Yellowlegs were too far away to photograph, but we watched them through a scope as they moved quickly, chasing fish through the water – tall, grayish birds with white bellies and long, slightly upturned bills, at first they look rather drab in winter plumage. But their bright yellow legs, active personalities and lively teew-teew-teew calls make them colorful.
Northern Harriers swept over the orange-brown grass of the marshes, Belted Kingfishers hunted from snags, and twice in the late afternoons, we saw several White Ibis fly up and away, silent, ghostly silhouettes with black-tipped wings and down-curved bills. And in the marshes and ponds and just about everywhere Great Egrets stalked and flew and posed – no less impressive for being so often around.
Over the exposed flats at low tide, flocks of gray and white sanderlings, with many brown dunlins intermixed, are deftly probing the surface for tiny crustaceans or mollusks. . . . At times, they rise up, dip, turn, and swing like a casting of silver facets into the air . . .
Is it not possible to follow the light through the medium of a bird? Without them, the days would go by without definition. – John Hay, “Migrants in Winter”
A Willet was among a scattering of sandpipers foraging along the edge of the waves late one morning as the tide was going out. Sanderlings scurried from spot to spot, lots of Dunlins probed the sand with long, down-turned bills, very business-like and focused on feeding, and one solitary Ruddy Turnstone flipped over little shells and shell fragments.
Forster’s Terns flashed pale gray and silvery white over the breaking waves, and several large rafts of Scaup – black diving ducks with white flanks – floated not far offshore. Brown Pelicans sailed low over the water, while Ring-billed Gulls and Laughing Gulls swarmed in the wake of a shrimping boat.
All in all, we didn’t spend a lot of time on the beach or see large numbers of shorebirds, but the highlights on the beach for me were a Bonaparte’s Gull, a Caspian Tern, and four Piping Plovers. The Bonaparte’s Gull – a small, graceful gull that flies on pale gray and white wings with an airy, tern-like ease – shows a black spot behind its eye and a thin black bill. It flew low over the waves coming toward us and past, but was quickly gone. The Caspian Tern – a big, muscular bird with a long, thick red bill with a dusky-dark tip – flew in and stood at the edge of the surf for a while.
Further up the beach, the pale, sand-colored Piping Plovers – which look so small and gentle – hunted in the sand near the edge of the dunes with a few Sanderlings. We watched them only for a few minutes, and not from too close, because they look vulnerable – and are. The Piping Plovers are seriously threatened and endangered shorebirds whose precarious future is widely recognized.
But even the Sanderlings, which we think of as the most common of little sandpipers on almost every beach, the little clockwork birds that scurry back and forth along the edges of the waves, have suffered serious declines in population in some areas, including our own Atlantic coast. Not surprisingly, it’s thought that increased recreational use and development along beaches may threaten their future.
One of the highlights of a short visit to Kiawah Island last week was finding a female Great Horned Owl sitting in a former Osprey nest in a tall pine, with the smaller male perched among the shadows of the pine branches not far away.
The nest overlooks an open expanse of marsh grass and ponds, and although we didn’t know it at the time, the owls were also seen there almost a month ago, by participants in a bird count organized by the Kiawah Island Nature Program. The nest is large and easy to see, constructed mostly of large sticks, with debris from palm trees, some Spanish moss, and one long tangled strand of bright orange string.
The female’s head, with its two prominent ears, stuck up from the nest, and through a scope, when she swiveled her head around in our direction, we could see her orange face and large, half-lidded yellow eyes. A strong wind ruffled the feathers of her head. The feathers on her upper back gleamed gray and dark brown in the sunlight, and on her breast, the barred brown plumage looked fluffed and spread out.
While we were there, four Ospreys soared and called over and over again around the same area, though they did not approach the nest or its tree. It seems likely that the nest originally belonged to one of these pairs, and we wondered what they would do, now that it’s been taken over by the owls. After getting back home, I looked this up, and learned that Great Horned Owls not only often take over nests of other raptors – they do not build nests of their own – but also that they are considered serious predators of Ospreys, often taking fledglings and even the adults.
When a Great Horned Owl takes over an Osprey nest, this usually disrupts the Osprey’s breeding season. Since this nest has been observed by residents of the island, I’m hoping someone will keep up with what happens and whether or not this pair of Ospreys will find another nesting spot.
At the time, I was simply spellbound, standing and watching the Great Horned Owl in such full view in the middle of a clear, sunny day, with the quiet sweep of brown marsh grass all around, the Ospreys flying and calling overhead, and herons, egrets and pied-billed grebes feeding in the ponds. The Owl looked stolid and strong and moved very little, as if nothing could perturb her, so still at times she looked like a piece of a log, only turning her head now and then – and showing a most remarkable, hypnotic face.
Coming home after being away for several days, I didn’t expect to find Pine Siskins still here. We filled the feeder before leaving, but they usually go through it in a day or two, so I thought they’d probably give up and move on, or decide it was a good time to head north. But late yesterday afternoon when we got back, I filled it again – and when I looked out first thing this morning, seven Pine Siskins were crowding on or around the feeder, munching away in a cold, steady rain that dripped from their feathers.
Two Goldfinches waited for a chance to break in, and on the ground below the feeder White-throated Sparrows and Dark-eyed Juncos foraged around some bushes. The zhreeee calls and chirps of at least four or five more Pine Siskins could be heard from the branches nearby, and I was happy to hear them and to have them around for a while longer.
Year-round, the most common birds around our yard by far are Tufted Titmice. During the winter months, several visit the feeders and the bird baths frequently and forage in the bare limbs of the oaks and pecans, coming and going just about all day every day, and they are so common I often neglect to pay much attention to them. But they are lively, quick, curious, attractive little birds, and our yard would be a much quieter and less interesting place without them. If I listened more closely, I think I could learn a lot about what’s going on from their day-day-day scolding and chattery gossip with the chickadees, and their peter-peter songs and wreep-wreeep calls.
One of their favorite spots is a Savannah holly tree next to the front porch where they often perch just before dropping down to a bird bath close to its branches for a drink or a dip.
Yesterday afternoon and evening snow fell for several hours, filling the air with a slow, white drifting-down of snowflakes that piled up several inches on pines, on bare limbs, on every surface. Today – a rare winter wonderland here, with blue sky, bright sun and frosty snow – Pine Siskins kept the feeders busy all day. In the branches nearby, several were always sitting, one by one, waiting a turn.
In a calm, cool, steady rain this morning, a Red-bellied Woodpecker sat out in the open on a branch and took a nice long shower, fluffing up its feathers, fluttering its wings and preening. It stretched out low on a lichen-covered pecan branch and rubbed its belly vigorously, sat up, preened its breast and belly and under each wing again, and scratched its head with one foot.
In the branches of other trees nearby at the same time, two Blue Jays, a Titmouse, a Cardinal and a Mockingbird also sat out in the rain and fluttered, fluffed and preened.
A Yellow-bellied Sapsucker – a handsome black and white and buff, with a deep crimson throat – stopped by one of the pecan trees looking wet and disheveled. He shook his feathers and fluffed them out, but never paused in his work, tapping and circling around.
More than two dozen Robins foraged in the open grass, heads held high, running, stopping, looking around, now and then poking at the ground. Chipping Sparrows fed in the grass all around them, much harder to see, low to the ground, looking like moving pieces of the grass. Two black Starlings stood apart from the others, on the edge of the grass, as if not sure they wanted to be there.
Two Pine Warblers and one Phoebe sang, a Mourning Dove cooed somewhere in the distance, and four or five Pine Siskins sat high up in the treetops and chirped and twanged zhreeeeee, a sound that still makes me smile every time I hear it. It’s a strange, exotic kind of music that for me is almost hypnotic – I just want to listen to it over and over again.
Lots of birds were active in the rain around the yard – Downy Woodpecker, Titmice, Chickadees, several Dark-eyed Juncos, Yellow-rumped Warblers, one Pine Warbler feeding in grass at the edge of the driveway, Bluebirds, and a male Towhee pecking at the ground in the shelter of wax myrtle shrubs.
The rain continued all day – a steady, soaking, welcome rain – until late afternoon, when it paused for a while and I took advantage of the break to get outside for a quick walk. Clouds filled the sky in many shades and shapes and fantasies of gray and white, some high and silky smooth, others low, dirty gray and thin, some whipped charcoal-blue, or milky-cream, or soft dove gray, or pearl, or sullen, drooping dark gray – and more. They kept my attention most of the way.
On the edge of the Old Field, a spray of about a dozen Song Sparrows flew up into tall, dead brown grassy weeds. Small flocks of Cedar Waxwings clustered in the tops of trees looking wet and less lively than usual. House Finches, Bluebirds, Cardinals and Brown Thrashers sang. And one Turkey Vulture perched on top of a utility pole with its wings stretched out to dry.
The day began with a cool, fresh-washed early spring morning, rainwater from light showers overnight dripping from the trees and a pale blue sky with clouds of peach and gold – and birdsong all around. Pine Warblers, Carolina Wrens, Cardinals, Chickadees, Titmice, Phoebe, Brown Thrasher and House Finches sang. A vivid black, rust-red and white Towhee sang from a sprawling yellow forsythia bush on one side of the yard, then from a small tree, then from the wax myrtles – making his rounds, I think.
A Red-bellied Woodpecker drummed on a limb and called its spring-time quuurrrr, Yellow-rumped Warblers called chek, Dark-eyed Juncos chittered, Mourning Doves cooed, Goldfinches mewed, Pine Siskins chirped and called zhreeeee. A pair of Bluebirds flew low across the yard, the male perched on top of the birdhouse and sang – then popped down and into the entrance.
In the last light of day, deep twilight, spring peepers sang from down around the creek in the woods. The western sky was a soft cloud-painting of mauve, orange, very pale turquoise, and smoky dark gray. Close to the horizon hung the thinnest sliver of a crescent moon on its back, with the outline of the full moon barely showing. And straight above the moon, directly, shined Venus, a big, bright, silvery star, looking much more brilliant than the thin, orange wisp of moon.