Birding Notes

This morning, as a soft, welcome rain dripped through the leaves of the oaks, I heard the stuttering voice of our first Ruby-crowned Kinglet of the season. As if to say hello, it came out near the end of a branch for a minute, a tiny, greenish-gray, active bird with bright, alert eyes and neat white wing bars. Nice to have them back again – they’ll bring a spark of liveliness to a landscape that has lately seemed weary and depressed.

The kinglet is the latest of a slow trickle of birds arriving for the winter season. Yesterday morning the first Yellow-rumped Warbler flew across the driveway in front of my car as I was leaving, flashing the patch of yellow on its rump as it passed, and diving into a wax myrtle bush.

The yard and neighborhood have seemed so quiet the past week that I’d all but given up on seeing any more migrants passing through, when I heard an Eastern Wood-Pewee’s distinctive rising call this morning – puh-weeee. Instead of sounding clear and sweet as it usually does, though, this Pewee’s voice sounded raspy and hoarse. It called repeatedly, and then I saw it, hunting from the low branches of a pecan tree and pausing long enough for me to see it well – dark, slightly pointed head; crisp white wing bars; rather long, slightly notched tail; pale throat and dusky “vest”; and only a very faint trace of an eye-ring. Its bill was dark on the upper mandible and tip, and the lower mandible orange.

It stayed in view for several minutes, perching on low branches, moving its head quickly from side to side, fluttering off to catch an insect. Its voice was the most interesting thing about it – it called over and over again, the same rising puh-weeee, hoarse and scratchy in quality.*

It was also a pleasure to watch, and I was sorry when an Eastern Phoebe came along and chased it away for the moment, though it stayed around off and on for the rest of the day. Although I like Phoebes too, both the markings and the movements of a Wood-Pewee seem more delicate and graceful, as if drawn with a sharper pen and a lighter, crisper touch. And, of course, they’ll be gone soon, for the winter. The Phoebes, year-round residents which have been particularly active and vocal lately, are a lot of fun in their own way, with more gregarious personalities – full of energy, lively, and frequently singing, chattering, or calling a soft tsup.

It’s interesting that we did not hear the songs of Eastern Wood-Pewees regularly during this past summer – I think there was only one pair nesting in or near the neighborhood – but this fall we’ve seen and heard several passing through in migration, and one or two have stayed around for several days.

(*It occurred to me to wonder if this could possibly have been a Western Wood-Pewee, since this species is described as almost identical to the Eastern, but with a burry, rough-quality voice. The recordings of a Western Wood-Pewee I’ve listened to, however, don’t sound anything like the call of the one I was watching, they sound much harsher, with a very different quality, and I found one reference to the fact that both species may at times call with either burry or clear voices. So I think this one was an Eastern Wood-Pewee with an unusually hoarse voice.)

The past week in Summit Grove has been notable mainly for the welcome change to cooler weather, and for the relative quiet in the woods and around the yard. The weather began to change with a good hard shower late Tuesday afternoon, and softer rain continued overnight. Not enough to do much for reservoirs or streams, but enough to give some relief to our trees and other vegetation here, at least temporarily.

Nights since then have been wonderfully cool – in the low 50s and 40s – and days have been pleasantly warm, with spectacularly beautiful deep blue skies and sparkling sunshine, but fewer migrating birds, and it often seems eerily quiet outside. Tuesday morning, one Magnolia Warbler hunted for a while through the tired green leaves of the oaks and pecans out front, flashing the white bands in its tail and a bright yellow breast and throat with black-streaked sides, and still showing a trace of its “necklace” of black marks across the upper breast. The same afternoon, I heard the tooting calls of a Red-breasted Nuthatch again, up high in the pines, but still haven’t seen one.

Early this afternoon a solitary Black and White Warbler stayed for several minutes in the branches of a White Oak out back, methodically creeping, sort of turning this way and that as it worked its way along, frequently turning upside down to inspect the lower side of a branch or the leaves there – and showing a nice view of its pretty, dark-spotted undertail coverts.

The usual Carolina Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, and Downy Woodpeckers frequent the feeders and bird baths off and on all day, with occasional visits from Brown-headed Nuthatches, Eastern Bluebirds and a Red-bellied Woodpecker. But we’ve seen no Rose-breasted Grosbeaks at the feeders this fall. I’ve also seen not a single migrating thrush, which is unusual. In previous falls, we’ve almost always had at least a few Swainson’s, Gray-cheeked and Wood Thrushes, often in the dogwoods eating red berries. But this year, none, and I miss seeing them here – although I know from seeing other birding reports that many thrushes, including Veerys, have been seen in this area. So maybe I just haven’t been out at the right times.

Pine Warblers and Carolina Wrens are singing in the woods, and their songs seem especially lovely right now, in the prevailing quiet. Mockingbirds fly around the yard, flashing their white wing patches, and occasionally breaking into short bursts of song. Phoebes hunt from low branches all around the house and regularly check out the eaves and window ledges for spiders. Brown Thrashers scuttle around in the dead leaves under bushes, and venture out to feed along the edge of the grass. And this morning, an Eastern Towhee looked as if he was bathing in dew, fluttering around in the thickest part of the leaves in a crape myrtle.

On walks through the neighborhood, I usually hear the song of a House Finch and the loud Kleer! of three or four Northern Flickers. A Belted Kingfisher rattles near the small pond along Summit Drive. A Red-tailed Hawk can usually be seen around the Old Field, sitting on a utility pole or, as I approach, leaning forward on the pole, stretching out its neck, spreading its wings and dropping off into a glide, and gradually circling higher, dusty red tail fanned, up over the treetops and the highway. Higher up Black Vultures and Turkey Vultures soar in a big, deep, blue autumn sky.

Most days I hear the cries of a Red-shouldered Hawk from the woods around the creek. The Hairy Woodpeckers that for a while came every day to the dead pines at the edge of the woods have been conspicuously absent lately, but we’ve often heard the bugling call of a Pileated Woodpecker, and over the weekend watched as one worked for several minutes on a jumble of fallen limbs on the floor of the woods, its blood-red crest glowing in fingers of sunlight.

When I think of a bird singing, usually I picture a feathered head lifted, bill parted, and throat quivering as the notes come out – a classic image. I’ve known that many birds can sing with their mouths full, or even with their bills closed, but I had never fully appreciated this until I watched a Northern Mockingbird running through his repertoire this morning while preening.

It was late morning, hot and sunny, but sitting on the front porch, I was in the shade and could feel a light northwest breeze. The parched grass and shrubs were thickly littered with small brown water oak leaves and acorns – making it at least look like fall, even if it didn’t feel like it. Except for Chickadees, Titmice and one female Red-bellied Woodpecker on the feeders, the yard was quiet until the Mockingbird began to sing.

For a while, I watched the Red-bellied Woodpecker feeding, admiring the silky-sheen of soft red on the back of her head, the small smudge of reddish-orange over the long, sharp bill, the mottled markings on the white underside of the tail, and the fine detail of white patterns on black wings and back.

Then she flew, and I turned my attention to the Mockingbird’s song and, feeling lazy, began to try to identify the different songs it incorporated . . . Blue jay, Bluebird, Carolina Wren, Titmouse, Chickadee, Phoebe, Cardinal, Red-bellied Woodpecker, Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, White-eyed Vireo? – I think so – Towhee, Goldfinch, Brown-headed Nuthatch . . .

The Mockingbird sat in a pecan tree, on a low-hanging branch that was mostly bare of leaves and in full view, and sang enthusiastically for fifteen or twenty minutes. For almost all of this time, it was also preening and scratching, and after a minute or two, I realized that it rarely seemed to open its bill at all, except to part it slightly now and then. The effect was disconcerting. As it poured out a steady, uninterrupted stream of songs, it preened its breast and wings, fanned its tail and raked its bill through the feathers, and scratched its head vigorously several times. This looked so remarkable that I briefly thought maybe there must be one bird I was watching and another that was singing. But there was no other Mockingbird around, and even when it did not seem to open its bill at all, I could see its throat and upper breast trembling with song.

For a minute or two, he fell silent, and sat still, head up alertly. Another Mockingbird was singing in the distance. Then he scratched his head, and began to sing again.

He showed a decided preference for Bluebird, Blue Jay, and Carolina Wren songs or calls and returned to them most often. He also seemed to like Phoebes – both their song and their fussing, burbling calls. More than once I heard the chik-brrr of a Scarlet Tanager, a Hairy Woodpecker’s kingfisher-like rattle, a Summer Tanager’s pik-a-tuk, the high, needle-thin calls of Titmice and Chickadees, and the perfect whreep of a Great Crested Flycatcher.

For a few minutes, he stopped preening and settled down just to sitting and singing, but even then he still did not seem to open his bill more than parting it slightly. Then he scratched his head, stretched out one wing, and began to preen again, still singing. The rich, full, musical sounds seemed to come from nowhere. Certainly it didn’t look as if they were coming from this bird so obviously preoccupied with its grooming.

In a brief search of books and web resources, the best explanation I found of this ability of some birds to sing without seeming to open their bills is in The Birdwatcher’s Companion to North American Bird Life, by Christopher W. Leahy (2004). Leahy explains that bird songs and calls are produced in an organ called the syrinx, which is analogous to the human voice box (larynx), but unique to birds. “Attached to the syrinx are pairs of muscles that control the quality of sound production. The songbirds have a maximum complement of syringeal muscles, up to 8 or 9 pairs.”

“It will be noticed,” Leahy continues, “that birdsong, unlike human speech, is not inflected much (if at all) by resonating in nasal, mouth, or throat cavities. This is dramatized by the ability of many species to sing full, rich songs with their mouths full or their bills closed.”

Another very warm fall day. The morning was sunny with a deep blue, cloudless sky, calm and rather quiet in the front yard, except for Chickadees and Titmice around the feeders, and Carolina Wrens and a Pine Warbler singing in the woods. A Phoebe sang in a neighbor’s yard. A Monarch butterfly sailed overhead, backlit against the blue.

Then from high in the pinetops on my right, I heard a small, sharp Ank-ank! Ank-ank! The calls of a Red-breasted Nuthatch. It was too high in the pines to see, and although it called repeatedly for three or four minutes, it gradually moved away to the east and out of hearing. Even though I didn’t see it, and it didn’t stay around long, I was ridiculously happy to hear these funny little calls that are often described as sounding like a tin horn.

Red-breasted Nuthatches live year-round in northern coniferous forests, but are well known for having “irruptive” years in which they are seen in abundance much further south during the fall and winter. Similar to our southern Brown-headed Nuthatches, they are small, stubby birds, with bluish-gray back, soft cinnamon-red breast and black head, with a vivid black streak through the eye and bright white stripe over the eye. They typically move head down on the trunks of trees, searching for insects, and they frequently come to feeders.

This year seems to be one of their irruptive years – a good year to take advantage of the chance to see them here. There have been numerous reports of sightings in Georgia, so I’ve been watching and listening for them but until today hadn’t had any luck. Now it’s good to know they’re around in our area, too – at least passing through now and then.

It was a cloudy, warm morning with the hope, but not the promise of rain in the air. Our serious rain deficit continues, and all the trees and other vegetation look very dry. Oconee County and surrounding counties are now under complete bans of outdoor water use 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and everyone’s being urged to reduce water use as much as possible.

Raindrops spattered down now and then, but by mid morning hadn’t amounted to much. The woods on the edge of our back yard seemed very quiet except when stirred by the wind. No bird activity other than the dry sounds of little chips here and there among the leaves, the loose, cool trill of a Pine Warbler, and the burbling and fussing of two or three Carolina Wrens. I last saw a Hummingbird on Sunday, the last day of September. Since then, the feeder has seemed abandoned, except for the Chickadees and Titmice that come now and then to sip from the water moat in the middle of it.

A tiny, dark shadow of a bird darted from branch to branch among the slender young oaks just inside the woods, so small and quick I almost thought it was just a speck in my eye. But when I looked with binoculars, it turned out to be a stunning Black-throated Blue Warbler. He stayed in view for less than a minute, but his color and markings were so intense and distinctive the image stayed with me as clear as a photo – dark-blue back and head, black throat and face, pure white belly, and bright white “handkerchief” on the wing. A vivid splash of color against the muted, grayish background of the day.

I walked around and looked for several minutes, but could find no other warblers or other migrants – no sound or sight of any but this one, and it, too, had disappeared.

A Katydid Caught in an Orb-web Spider’s Grasp

Outside our kitchen window this morning, in the remnants of a web spun across the corner, a large orb-web spider held an even larger green katydid in her grasp. She seemed to be trying to chew away the silk in which it was entangled, to release it rather than to wrap it up. Most of the carefully constructed web had been demolished, maybe torn up by the katydid’s wings. Later, I found the corpse of the katydid on the window ledge below, partly chewed up, but lovely green wings intact. No sign of the spider or her web.

A Young Black Rat Snake Lost

Also this morning – a deeply cloudy, warm, humid day – we found a small, slender gray snake with dark splotchy markings lying dead just outside our garage door. A discarded snakeskin lay in the pine needles under a nearby bush. Ants had formed a trail to a spot near the end of the snake’s very thin tail. The head looked triangular, but the cloudy eyes appeared very round – not the vertical slits of a pit viper – and I could see no sign of rattles or a button on the tail. It was almost certainly a very young Black Rat Snake, which isn’t surprising because several times we’ve seen large Black Rat Snakes around the same area of our yard. We’re happy to have them around because they’re not venomous and they eat rodents and insects – on the other hand, they also eat small birds. It wasn’t clear what had killed it, though it must have been vulnerable just after leaving its old skin.

No Red-breasted Nuthatch – but an Eastern Wood Pewee and a Pileated Woodpecker

Meanwhile, around the feeders in the front yard, I was watching out for a Red-breasted Nuthatch because there’ve been many reports of sightings this fall – including a call from my sister, Janet, in Charlotte, NC, this morning saying she had seen one in her birdbath. She described it perfectly – a small, quick bird with a bluish back, stubby tail and distinctive bright white stripe over the eye. So far, I haven’t been so lucky. Around our bird baths and feeders were only the ubiquitous Titmice, Chickadees, Downy Woodpecker, Red-bellied Woodpecker, and Carolina Wren, and a Mockingbird that seems to like the fruit, nut and seed mixture I’ve put out recently. Three Mourning Doves pecked under the feeders. Our resident pair of Brown-headed Nuthatches stopped by for a while, and a pair of Brown Thrashers fed in the grass on the edge of the driveway. A Phoebe hunted from perches on our mailbox and in low branches. A Pine Warbler sang in the woods nearby.

Then – like a small consolation prize for not seeing any Red-breasted Nuthatches – or maybe as a reminder to appreciate what’s here instead of looking for something else – an Eastern Wood Pewee swooped in low and landed on the branch of a pecan tree. It flew from there all around the front yard, not staying long in any one spot, and was mostly quiet, but paused in another low branch close enough and long enough for me to see it well – and for it to sigh a brief, soft wee-oo.

A few minutes later I heard the bugling call of a Pileated Woodpecker, and then saw it as it flew across our yard – a large black bird with a rolling flight pattern, flying low, flashing white – to an oak at the corner of our property. I could just barely see its flaming red crest and imperious profile through the branches of the other trees, but it stayed around in the same general area for at least half an hour, frequently clucking or calling.

The first two days of October have brought beautiful fall weather – with crisp, chilly mornings, deep blue sky, sparkling sunlight and brisk winds – and rather frustrating birding. The treetops have often seemed full of bird activity, but I haven’t been able to spot any migrants among the wind-tossed leaves, except for one Red-eyed Vireo.

Late this morning as I walked through the neighborhood, the kee-yer cry of a soaring Red-shouldered Hawk sounded clear and close, though the hawk was so high it was barely a speck against the blue. Four Chimney Swifts twittered much lower overhead. Phoebes, Pine Warblers and Mockingbirds sang, Brown-headed Nuthatches called squeaky-dee, and I heard the kleer! of a Northern Flicker – the first one I’ve heard this fall. Although some Flickers live here year-round, more usually arrive around this time to spend the winter here, so they become much more noticeable.

The Old Field that runs along the dead-end road just outside the entrance to our subdivision is coming alive with fall color and texture, despite the drought, and despite the fact that someone recently and pointlessly sprayed a lot of the already fading kudzu with an herbicide, turning it before its time into an ugly, scraggly brown mess. But goldenrod and other yellow-flowering weeds have begun to bloom in profusion. White, purple and pink morning glories wind through grasses and thorny weeds, and are especially pretty in a roadside ditch, where the blooms tumble over ragweed, horse nettles, and tough-looking brambles and vines. Sleepy orange and Cloudless Sulphur butterflies weave around foxtails, broomsedge, tall red-topped grasses, and the deep-purple berries and raw red stems of pokeweed. Now and then the burning-orange wings of a Gulf Fritillary dance like a small flame through the grasses. Grasshoppers sing and snap and fly.

The summer birds are gone from the field – indigo buntings, blue grosbeaks, white-eyed vireos, and I think even the catbirds now – and the winter sparrows and juncos haven’t yet arrived, so the mellow chewink of Eastern Towhees is the most characteristic call in the field right now.

At 7:30 this morning, the air felt pleasantly warm and humid. Big soft gray clouds covered much of the sky, but in a loose, sleepy way, so that the sky looked mostly blue, and the sun rose clear and silver-yellow, burning away the clouds as it rose higher. Dew dampened the grass, and as I walked, big fat raindrops spattered down for several minutes, spotting the road, but never enough even to get me wet.

Several Mockingbirds have begun to sing throughout the neighborhood, so at times it sounds like a recap of the summer, a medley of Red-eyed Vireo, Tufted Titmouse, Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, Summer Tanager, Great-crested Flycatcher, Yellow-throated Vireo, Wood Thrush, and even Chuck Wills Widow. One Brown Thrasher also was singing this morning, as well as three Phoebes and several Carolina Wrens. Four Bluebirds sat in the bare top branches of four different pecan trees along the roadside and warbled. A Catbird mewed in the Old Field, but the White-eyed Vireos have been silent – and presumably gone – now for several days.

As I passed the Old Field, a Carolina Wren sang from the thickets, winkery-winkery-winkery-weep, and another, across the road on the other side of me, responded, jubilee-jubilee-jubilee-chee. Almost the same song, but not the same – one sounded more “chewy” while the other was sharper and more metallic. Then I heard yet another singing the same kind of repeated three syllable pattern, that was more like the classic description of a Carolina Wren’s song, teakettle, teakettle, teakettle, tea! Basically the same, but distinctly different versions.

In this part of the South, Carolina Wrens are so common we often take them for granted. Small, pugnacious brown birds with upturned tail, down-curving bill, and a white stripe over the eye, they always seem full of energy. They’re familiar to many of us as the pesky little birds that are always trying to build a nest in a hanging fern or a box in the garage, or even on top of a wheel on a truck if it hasn’t been driven in a while. One of my favorite descriptions of a Carolina Wren is given by A.C. Bent, quoting a Mr. Dawson, who wrote in 1903: “On all occasions this nervous little creature appears to be full of a sort of compressed air, like the lid of a teakettle being jarred up and down by steam.”*

As common as they are, Carolina Wrens are among the most musical and virtuosic of all birds, and at this time of year, I’m always reminded of their amazingly varied and extensive repertoire of songs, calls, and other sounds like buzzy scolding, or alarm chirping or – especially in the fall – a sort of traveling, burbling call used as they move through bushes and low trees. Their most characteristic song is two or three syllables, repeated several times, but there seem to be an almost endless number of variations on a few basic patterns. At times, I have stood in one spot and heard as many as eight different Carolina Wrens singing eight distinctly different songs around me – some two-syllable, some three – and it was impossible not to wonder what different meanings their songs might be expressing.

*A.C. Bent, Life Histories of North American Birds. Carolina Wren (Thryothorus ludovicianus)

On the first day of Fall, a small feeding flock of migrating birds paid a quiet visit to the trees around our house. It was a cloudy, very warm and very humid day, with blue sky breaking through the big gray clouds now and then. The musical trill of a Pine Warbler’s song, and the sweet, repeated puh-weee of an Eastern Wood Pewee set the mood of the day.

Late in the morning, an Acadian Flycatcher called a sharp wheet! from the edge of the woods; two female Ruby-throated Hummingbirds chased each other off and on around the feeder; two Carolina Wrens sang back and forth; a Red-bellied Woodpecker whirred; and then the call of a Downy Woodpecker and the chatter of Titmice and Chickadees announced the arrival of a feeding flock of several different species of birds.

Except for the Titmice and Chickadees, most of the birds were migrants passing through on their way south, and most were moving and feeding quietly. A Black and White Warbler crept down the trunk of an oak and along its branches; a sleek-looking male Scarlet Tanager lurked deeper in the oak leaves, black wings contrasting with its yellow-green plumage; a Red-eyed Vireo made its way from branch to branch, eating caterpillars; and a tiny, rather plain-looking greenish warbler with a yellow throat and breast, very faint, indistinct wingbars, dingy white under the tail, and a pale streak over the eye fluttered in the leaves like a butterfly – a Tennessee Warbler.

At least two Chestnut-sided Warblers hunted in clusters of oak leaves at the ends of branches. With smooth green head and back, rich yellow wing bars, white eye-rings and no trace of the chestnut sides of their spring plumage, they looked bright and neat, and moved quickly. I watched one as it ate a green caterpillar – these green caterpillars in the oaks are popular. It hit the caterpillar against a branch once or twice, almost lazily, and then snapped it down quickly. At one point, it moved into a ray of sunlight that turned its greenish head and back to gold. Calling out a soft cheff! as it moved, it fluttered in a cluster of leaves near the hummingbird feeder, and one of the female Hummingbirds zoomed up aggressively and tried to chase it away, but the warbler ignored her, and only flew on to another tree after another caterpillar or two.

While the Tennessee Warbler moved mostly in the shadows, deep in the leaves, almost completely quiet, the Chestnut-sided Warblers looked sunny, lively and gregarious, even in their more subdued fall plumage, coming out into the open much more often.

The day ended with a break in the clouds and then, paradoxically, an unexpected but very welcome rain shower that fell steady and strong for a half-hour or more, much of the time raining through sunlight.