Birding Notes

About 2:30 this afternoon, as I was driving out on my way to do some errands, a Sharp-shinned Hawk flew over the highway ahead of me, a little above tree level. Its compact shape and fluttery way of flying caught my eye. It flapped several quick times, then a short glide, then several more quick flaps and another glide. At one point, it banked, showing its pale under side and a perfect view of its shape – the small head and broad, short wings, and slender squarish tail. Even though it was a very brief sighting, it left a vivid impression, and lightened up a busy afternoon, putting things in a better, more relaxed perspective.

A Sharp-shinned Hawk and a Cooper’s Hawk are so similar in appearance that it’s easy to mistake one for the other – and I’m sure I’ve been wrong more than once. The reasons I’m pretty sure this was a Sharp-shinned Hawk were its compact shape and the way it flew – quick flaps followed by glides. It was flying between two areas of wooded land, on either side of the highway.

Both Sharp-shinned and Cooper’s Hawks are woodland raptors designed for flight through trees and dense cover, in pursuit of their prey – smaller birds and some mammals. The Sharp-shinned especially is known for preying on songbirds. I see Cooper’s Hawks fairly often, but Sharp-shinned only now and then, but I wouldn’t say that’s a good measure of which is more common here. The Sharp-shinned is not only smaller but also more secretive, and its habits in general make it less likely to be observed, except during migration.

So for me, it’s less common to see a Sharp-shinned Hawk, and it always feels like a particular stroke of luck, and an uncommon glimpse of a bird that usually stays well hidden in the trees. I also couldn’t help thinking, as I drove on, that these woods on either side of the highway, where the Sharp-shinned Hawk had flown, are steadily being replaced by development, and in another few years they probably will be gone.

Early this morning – a clear, cold day – a Cardinal sat in the top of a pecan tree, catching the first rays of the rising sun, and sang. His bright song – seeer-seeer-purdy-purdy-purdy – was closely echoed by another, slightly softer purdy-purdy-purdy-purdy that chimed in near the end each time he sang. The second singer was a female Cardinal perched lower down in the branches of a tree on the other side of the yard. They sang like this together several times, all the while I was walking up the driveway to get the morning paper, and walking back.

Late this morning the sky was a soaring soft blue, marbled with swirling white clouds, and a northwest breeze was stiff and cold – it felt good to be outside and walking. Birds were active everywhere. A Bluebird flashed against a background of drab and faded grass. A Phoebe swooped down to the ground and up to a limb where it quickly bobbed its tail. Yellow-rumped Warblers chased each other in and out of evergreens. A Ruby-crowned Kinglet stuttered as it flew out to the edge of a bush, looking around curiously. House Finches – invisibly perched high up in a tangle of gray-brown branches – whistled long, rambling tunes. Red-bellied Woodpeckers flew in roller-coaster, dipping flight from tree to tree, and a Downy gave its high, cascading whinny. Pine Warblers sang from the edges of the woods.

A vivid Yellow-bellied Sapsucker mewed repeatedly as it hitched and peered around the trunk of a pecan tree, his throat and crown deep crimson. A female, more subdued in her coloring, watched him quietly from the trunk of a nearby tree with interest, but without responding.

Dark-eyed Juncos, Chipping Sparrows and White-throated Sparrows rustled and pecked in leaves on the ground, each moving in a different, distinct sort of way. Juncos peck at the ground, look up and around, and scurry to another spot, often in the direction of where another bird is foraging. Chipping Sparrows appear more calm and casual, often staying in one spot for several seconds or longer – unless startled, when they fly up in a sudden, silvery flash of wings, as if becoming a different bird. It always amazes me how they change so quickly. White-throated Sparrows venture out from beneath the shrubs watchfully and forage methodically, sometimes sitting quietly against the base of a trunk for several minutes, just looking around, diving straight for the bushes when disturbed.

Two warm-yellow Pine Warblers searched for food with several Yellow-rumped Warblers along the sides of the road and on the road itself, littered with leaves and maybe with seeds or insects of some kind. Some of the Yellow-rumped Warblers looked less drab and more spring-like, with bright yellow sides and crisp dark streaks.

A Red-tailed Hawk soared over, wings outstretched, all pale underneath with dark brown band and wing tips, brown head, and dull orange tail. We’re lucky to have a pair that we see almost every day, and I never get tired of watching their flight, especially on a day like today, when it looks majestic, broad wings spread out and lit against the blue sky. A second Red-tailed Hawk flew up from a bank of trees, and the high one screamed, answered by the other.

From a stand of several pines came a grating, sharply rising call – zhree-eee-eee – and a twitter of shorter, raspy chirps. The trees were full of Pine Siskins. These were the first ones I’ve run into away from the feeders in our yard, and it was interesting to watch them in a different setting – or just to listen to them. Their zhree-eee-eee calls are fascinating. The sound makes me wince like a shock, and yet, I stood there listening to it again and again because it’s so intriguing. It’s a like a buzz of electricity zipping up a wire, with a tense quality of warning to it, and an eery undercurrent of music.

Not long before sundown on this last day of January, twenty-one Cedar Waxwings glowed like small yellow lanterns hung in the bare branches at the very top of a tall oak. All facing the west and catching the last light of the day, they made a striking picture that felt like a fitting farewell to a long, cold, often dark gray month. All through January, the Waxwings have been among our most characteristic winter birds, seeming to be almost everywhere, often bringing vivid, elegant spots of color and movement and sound to gloomy days.

Today, though, was sunny and windy, chilly, but not cold. A large flock of several hundred Blackbirds streamed through the trees late this afternoon, looking like a cloud that went on and on, settling and moving in wave after wave, and making quite a bit of noise. All I could see or hear were Red-winged Blackbirds and Common Grackles, and these, too, have been a common part of January here. I couldn’t get close enough to them to look for Rusty Blackbirds among them, but we haven’t had the regular flock of Rusties this year that we often saw last winter.

At 7:45 this morning, it was cold, clear and windy, with a silky blue sky and traces of high white clouds, all that were left of the dark clouds and rain of the past few days. A thin crust of ice topped the birdbaths. Three Chipping Sparrows sat on the block feeder in the front yard, eating seeds – and dozens of other Chipping Sparrows seemed to be everywhere – in the bushes, in the grass, in low limbs, and chasing each other here and there. The tall bare limbs of the river birches were dotted with little birds, a few Yellow-rumped Warblers and a couple of Bluebirds, but mostly Chipping Sparrows.

A Pine Warbler sang, and after standing for a few minutes on the front porch watching sparrows, I realized I was also hearing the bright, clear whistle of a Cardinal’s song, the first one I’ve heard since the start of winter. Chickadees, Titmice, House Finches and Carolina Wrens also are singing now, which sounds like a lot, but for the most part they’re sort of spaced out, and each song still sounds distinct against a background of prevailing quiet, quite different from the exuberant jumble of songs all together that will come in the spring.

A Downy Woodpecker, a Carolina Wren, Chickadees and Titmice shared the feeders with the Chipping Sparrows, and a half dozen Dark-eyed Juncos foraged for seeds in the dry leaves below. Although they’re said to be a very common feeder bird, I rarely see one on our feeders. They usually forage on the ground underneath with White-throated Sparrows, Cardinals and Mourning Doves.

I watched the Juncos for a while, trying to figure out why they remind me of Wallace and Gromit’s sneaky penguin, Feathers McGraw. There’s something about the dark, round gray head and hood, dark eyes, white belly, and pink beak, and also something about they way they move, a little shifty, maybe scheming. They always seem to be looking around to see if some other bird has found a better spot than they have. A Junco pecks at the ground half-heartedly, looks up – and scurries over to see what another Junco has found – only to be disappointed most of the time.

Chipping Sparrows don’t come often to our feeders every year until around this time – late January or early February. Until then, they’re scattered out through the neighborhood in small flocks, feeding in yards and along the roadside, and bursting up in scattering flight when startled. When they do start coming to the feeders, they usually come only two or three at a time, and they don’t come and go quickly. They stay sitting placidly, eating, resting, looking around, and eating.

Handsome little birds, with clear gray breast, brown-streaked back and wings, and chestnut-red crown, their personalities are an intriguing mix of calm and flighty, solitary and social, open and secretive, common and little-noticed. At home in open woodlands and around the edges of forests, they also thrive in suburban habitats and are common residents of yards and gardens.

This morning began at first light with a plain orange glow that rose and spread quietly over the eastern sky, beneath a fold of steel-gray clouds, and with the songs of a Pine Warbler, a Carolina Chickadee and a Carolina Wren, and the spring-like quurrrr of a Red-bellied Woodpecker.

Many of the past few days have been gray and cloudy, often foggy, damp and chilly, sometimes cold enough to freeze the water in the bird baths. Today was still dreary and gray, but much warmer and the air felt soft, with a southwest wind blowing low, dark, dingy clouds across the sky. White-throated Sparrows called tseet from beneath the bushes, a Ruby-crowned Kinglet chattered in its dry, stuttering way, and several Chickadees and Titmice arrived at the feeders in the front yard, along with a Downy Woodpecker with a bright red patch on the back of his head. Brown-headed Nuthatches squeaked somewhere nearby. A Brown Thrasher lurked under the wax myrtles, foraging nervously, maybe keeping an eye out for the neighborhood cats. A Mockingbird called out in a harsh, loud squawk.

Two Crows came to one of the birdbaths. They stop by almost every morning lately, and if the water is frozen, they peck at the surface to break it up. This morning they took turns drinking – one on the ground while the first one drank, then they changed places. Several early mornings I’ve seen about eight or nine Crows in the bare branches of a pecan tree on the edge of our yard, and I don’t know if they roost there, or if this has become a regular stop in their early morning routine.

Out back, Pine Siskins continued to swarm the feeders. A couple of American Goldfinches competed for space, and one Dark-eyed Junco scrounged up seeds scattered on the deck and ground.

Later in the morning when I went for a walk, it hadn’t yet started to rain, but the clouds looked dark and threatening and – like the past several days – the murky gray light made it hard to see any color or detail. Birds were little dark shapes perched on branches and flitting from tree to tree – or big dark shapes drifting against the clouds. But sounds were sharp and clear, and most of the birds along the way were familiar – the usual suspects in their usual haunts. The check calls of Yellow-rumped Warblers ticked all around as they chased each other in and out of evergreens, a Ruby-crowned Kinglet chattered in the thickets at one corner, a Phoebe called tsup – tsup, and the coo of a Mourning Dove drifted through the mist – bringing me to an unexpected stop.

It cooed again, a low, echoing, whoo-OOH-hoo-oo-oo that is so familiar a part of the background I rarely even notice it. But this morning, for some reason, I wondered what if it were not. It’s a lovely, graceful call, especially evocative on a day like this.

The high, thin calls of Cedar Waxwings passed overhead, and I saw about three dozen fall out of formation and into the bare branches of a couple of small trees. All along the way I passed several other flocks of Cedar Waxwings, sometimes perched, often flying by, sounding like sparkles in the wind.

Suddenly, the big, black wings of a Turkey Vulture loomed up from behind some trees and swooped down over me, very low, coming so close over my head I could hear the heavy whump-whump of its wings, and see its dull red head. Flapping and tilting in the wind, it blew up over the crest of a hill and out of sight, as suddenly as it had come.

A little further on, a House Finch sang – a cheery, whistled, but quiet song – and several others murmured from where they perched in a small tree. Not far away, near the top of another small tree, was a pair of Bluebirds sitting together, and the male was singing.

About midway through the neighborhood, there’s an area where the Blackbirds usually gather, and this morning they were there as usual. I could hear them long before I got to the top of the hill and saw them spread out on the grass and in the trees. Most are Red-winged Blackbirds, with a few Common Grackles. I haven’t seen any Rusty Blackbirds among them since late in the fall, though it’s possible I’m just missing them. On a day like today, it’s almost hopeless to try to see them well, but all I could hear were the creaky voices of the Red-winged Blackbirds and the harsh, noisy chucking of the Grackles.

In a line of tall, dense cedars, several little birds flew from tree to tree – Chipping Sparrows, more Yellow-rumped Warblers, White-throated Sparrows – and two Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers tapped on the trunks of pecan trees. Several times recently, I’ve seen both a Pileated Woodpecker and a Red-shouldered Hawk in this area, but no sign of either one this morning.

In the Old Field just outside our subdivision, White-throated Sparrows called from the weeds, Cedar Waxwings perched in shabby bare chinaberry trees, and several Robins called in squeaky voices and moved restlessly around. I stood for several minutes watching sparrows in a tangle of dead vines, looking for maybe a Song Sparrow or a Field Sparrow or something more exotic. All I found were White-throated Sparrows, but that’s not a complaint. They’re among my favorite winter birds and I’m happy they still return, despite the changes brought by every passing year.

On my way back home, a Red-tailed Hawk flew out of some tall trees, chased by several crows. It worked its way higher and left the Crows behind, and in only three or four minutes, it was soaring high and fast, almost swirling like leaves in a blurry white and gray sky, with another Red-tailed Hawk, three Black Vultures and two Turkey Vultures.

Pine Siskins continue to visit the two feeders on our back deck off and on all day every day. They are aggressive little birds, and only a few Goldfinches succeed in getting to the feeders now and then. Early in the mornings, several Siskins swarm both of the feeders, and there’s a whirring of wings and jostling for places as little brown-streaked birds come and go, but they’re more tolerant of others at that time, more intent just on eating as much as they can. Later in the day, one or two particularly greedy Pine Siskins sometimes fend off others and try to keep a feeder to themselves, though there are always a few around to challenge them, and frequently several come together again and there’s another period of group feeding.

Because it’s uncommon for us to have so many Pine Siskins around, I’m trying to take advantage of this chance to watch them – who knows when we’ll have another winter invasion like this. So I watch them for several minutes at a time, and look for something about them to draw my interest, but really can’t find much, other than their rather mysterious and unpredictable nomadic nature. As individuals, they are not particularly appealing or interesting – though that may be my failure of imagination. They just perch or cling and furiously stuff their sharp, thin beaks with seeds, as fast as they can. Stuff, stuff, stuff – raise head and look around, swallow all those little seeds, then stuff, stuff, stuff again. I get the impression their beaks are pink, though they are not. It’s because they are open so much of the time, showing the pink inside of the mouth. In threat or aggressive display, the males seem to open their beaks, too.

They look like what they eat. (Don’t we all!) As if their streaks were made by the scattering flight of the tiny brownish gray seeds they send flying all around them. Their heads and faces are patterned in fine, delicately precise fawn-brown streaks. One or two of them show much more yellow in their wings and tail than others, and these appear to be more often the dominant ones that try to keep others away from the feeders.

In all, I think there are about two or three dozen Pine Siskins staying around in the branches of the trees near our back deck and feeding regularly, but there may be more.

Also yesterday morning, a female Yellow-bellied Sapsucker was gleaning something from the gray-green leaves and branches of some privet at the edge of the woods. She was very pretty, with a rich lemon-yellow breast, pure white throat and crimson crown. She raked the branches and leaves of the shrub through her bill, and once flew up and appeared to hawk a flying insect from the air. I could not tell if she was getting insects or maybe water or some kind of plant excretions from the privet.

Plain little brown-streaked birds with thin, sharp bills and a touch of yellow in their wings – Pine Siskins have arrived at the feeders behind our house. The way they swarm the feeders in a frenzy of competition and feeding, from a short distance they look more like fluttering moths than birds.

For me, it’s a life bird. I’ve never seen a Pine Siskin before yesterday. But I had studied my field guides and knew what to watch for because there have been many reports of Pine Siskins in this area this year. So I was hoping to see them here, but had almost given up – and was surprised and delighted to have three dozen or more show up and stay around for at least a couple of days.

But I’ve discovered that I find watching the Pine Siskins somewhat disconcerting. There’s something about the constant competition and the frenzied pace that, while interesting, is sort of unsettling. It’s not just that there are so many of them, or that they’re in a flock – I love watching a large flock of blackbirds, for instance, spread out across a yard and feeding in the grass, flying up together in a hollow whoosh of wings. It’s the raw competitiveness, and the nervous energy and anxious aggressiveness among the little Siskins that’s disturbing. Watching them makes me feel edgy and uneasy.

Pine Siskins – closely related to our much more familiar American Goldfinches – breed in the northern forests of North America, especially in Canada and the far northeast and western U.S, and south through the Appalachians. They are known as an irruptive species, meaning they sometimes move south in large numbers in the winter, while in other years, very few are seen.

I first saw them yesterday morning while I was watching the Pileated Woodpeckers. Three small birds flew down to the birdbath only a few feet away, making rough little chirping noises that weren’t familiar to me. When I turned to look, there they were. Heavily streaked with grayish-brown, with tawny brown faces, darker wings, white wing bars, and – the mark that makes identification easy – a small patch of yellow that barely shows in the folded wings.

After the woodpeckers flew, I walked around to the back deck and found Pine Siskins all over both feeders, and more up in the branches of the oaks. I stood only about five feet away from the sock feeder, and a little further from the tube feeder, and they crowded all over both, stuffing seeds into their bills furiously, and constantly competing to get and keep a spot. Different personalities were immediately obvious – while some were very aggressive, clinging to a feeder and repeatedly fending off other birds, others seemed more passive, lurking in the branches or on the deck rail, waiting for a spot to open up – and jumping in as soon as one did. One or two calmer individuals seemed content to feed on thistle seed that had fallen onto the deck.

I watched for a few minutes as one particularly aggressive Siskin kept all others away from the sock feeder. Whenever another bird approached, it flared its wings and lunged at the newcomer, chasing it away. Meanwhile, most of the Goldfinches seemed to have backed off from the invasion, at least to begin with. Several sat in the branches nearby and mewed. Only one plump, sturdy-looking Goldfinch wasn’t intimidated. It clung to the feeder and kept eating, ignoring the little Siskin bully, and pretty soon the Siskin left it alone and the two of them stuffed their bills together, having the feeder to themselves for a while.

The Siskins chirped and flew around me in a whir of motion, and in some ways I enjoyed watching them, studying their markings and different behaviors. They’re often sideways or upside down on the sock feeder, showing a pale, feathered area under the tail that’s mostly white with a pretty pattern of brown spots.