Birding Notes

After several days of unseasonably warm temperatures, it was cold again this morning, in the 20s, but sunny and bright. As I watched some White-throated Sparrows feeding in the back yard near several shrubs, a Hermit Thrush suddenly emerged from beneath a holly bush, ran quickly across a patch of bare ground, then stopped and stood still, looking wide-eyed and watchful. With grayish-brown plumage and a dark-spotted breast, a Hermit Thrush is a quiet, solitary bird that’s only here in the winter, and that’s more likely to be seen on or near the ground than up high in a tree.

I was especially happy to see it because it’s the first one I’ve seen or heard this year around our house, and it’s one of my favorite winter birds to watch – at the same time reclusive and lively, like a shy person who shows a colorful personality only when he thinks no one is looking. This one, like most Hermit Thrushes I’ve seen in the winter, was alone, and its behavior was typical. Emerging abruptly from beneath a bush, running for a few feet, then stopping and standing still, head held up high, then running and stopping again, now and then raising its rufous tail quickly, and lowering it slowly. Then – startled by something – it dove back into the bushes.

A dark, gray, rainy day, very warm, with storms around. We were under a tornado watch for several hours, but heard no more than passing thunder here. The birds around our house have been active and seem to like the warm, soft rain. It’s strangely spring-like. Two White-throated Sparrows sat in the top branches of a tea olive bush with raindrops plopping onto their feathers.

Pine Warblers, a Red-bellied Woodpecker, Cardinals, Mourning Doves, Downy Woodpeckers and House Finches were active around our one hanging feeder. Eastern Towhees scratched in leaves on the ground, and Song Sparrows and Chipping Sparrows fed in the bushes. A Phoebe, a Mockingbird and a couple of Bluebirds hunted around the yard, and two Black Vultures floated low over the bare-limbed trees.

Another White-throated Sparrow wallowed in a puddle of rainwater at the edge of the sidewalk, sinking down into the puddle repeatedly and fluffing out its feathers, fluttering and shaking all over, apparently having a fine time – and chasing away other sparrows from its puddle.

On the first day of the new year, five Eastern Bluebirds sat in the bare branches of a tree in our front yard. The weather was cool and very windy, with gusts shaking the trees and rustling the dry brown leaves still clinging to white oaks. After a rainy, warm and foggy New Year’s Eve, the sky was gradually clearing and becoming blue and sunny, and temperatures were falling. Against the damp, drab background of winter shrubs and grass, the colorful Bluebirds looked like a preview of spring. Or maybe they could be seen as a good omen for the year ahead.

They flew in silently together, one female and four males, and sat widely spaced apart on the low branches of a pecan tree. They clung to the branches, their feathers rumpled by the strong, chilly wind. It rushed through pines and bare branches with great roars at times, and the Bluebirds swayed and rocked, keeping their balance as the branches trembled and bounced. Every now and then, in a lull, one would fly off to catch an insect in the air, or to snap up something from the grass, then return to its spot.

The Bluebirds remained quiet, but through the blowing wind, shaking leaves, and creaking branches, I could hear the small, sharp calls of Yellow-rumped Warblers, the chuck-chuck of a Red-bellied Woodpecker, the sibilant calls of White-throated Sparrows, the squeaky complaint of one Robin, a Ruby-crowned Kinglet’s stuttering chatter, and even the high, thin notes of a Golden-crowned Kinglet. Two Turkey Vultures tilted low over the cul de sac in front of our house, and disappeared over the line of trees in the woods beyond.

At sunrise this morning, a big bright full moon hung low in the western sky, turning faintly pink and gold. The sky was a clear lavender-gray, with a few wooly clouds like strands of a sweater. White-throated Sparrows called their sibilant “tseets,” and sang. A Yellow-billed Sapsucker mewed. Yellow-rumped Warblers flitted from bare branch to wax myrtle to Savannah holly, calling “check!”

Three Yellow-rumped Warblers came to the birdbath, where a thin puddle of water and leaves had frozen overnight. The warblers all three – one with much brighter yellow markings than the others – took turns hopping onto the ice and slipping on it as they tried to drink through small openings.

A Brown Thrasher with feathers on its head ruffled up into a small peak fed among dry leaves around our Savannah holly, near the porch. A female Towhee kicked up leaves under the bare-limbed crape myrtles. A Carolina Wren clung to the bird feeder, feeding for several minutes. It’s unusual to see a wren on our feeder, though they’re always around the yard.

(NOTE: This is an unusually long entry, a summary of all our summer birds in Summit Grove for the 2006 season.)

This summer, the “chip-burr” of a Scarlet Tanager moves like a rumor through the leafy woods behind our house. An Acadian Flycatcher calls its sharp “pit-see” from down around the creek. The “whreep!” of a Great Crested Flycatcher and the exotic “cawp-cawp-cawp-cawp” of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo punctuate hot, humid summer afternoons, and against a background chorus of cicadas, the sweet, musical trill of a Pine Warbler in the woods sounds cool, like shade and shallow, rippling water.

Mornings begin with a colorful burst of song at first light from Carolina Wren, Cardinal, and Towhee, and the swish of a Phoebe’s call. As the sun comes up, a Yellow-throated Vireo sings “three-eight” as it moves steadily through the treetops around our house, and Blue-gray Gnatcatchers call “spee-spee” from the front-yard shrubs and small trees.

I’ve counted a total of 52 species seen often enough for me to feel sure they’ve nested somewhere in or near our neighborhood this season, and four interesting flyovers – Osprey, Northern Rough-winged Swallow, Great Blue Heron and Cooper’s Hawk. The Cooper’s Hawk probably nests nearby. I’ve seen one at least four or five times during the spring and early summer, but I’m not sure enough to count it as nesting here.

While many of our summer bird species are the same from year to year, the mix always changes slightly. This year, for instance, we hear the song of a Red-eyed Vireo in our woods less often and not as close by as in previous seasons. I rarely see the Scarlet Tanagers, but often hear their song and call. The Summer Tanagers also seem to be staying out of sight in the woods more than last year, but they sing almost every day, and their “pik-a-tuk” calls lace through the woods.

Eastern Bluebirds are feeding their second family in the bluebird house in our front yard now. I can hear the noisy young ones cheeping every time a parent ducks in with food. The Bluebirds’ first nesting effort succeeded, with at least two, and I think three fledged juveniles. We enjoyed watching the family hunting from low branches in our back yard for two or three weeks in late spring.

Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, both male and female, visit the feeder on our back deck frequently now, so their twittering and swift humming are familiar sounds whenever we step outside. We have one Mockingbird that’s been singing for at least a month, all day and all night long, and several others are still singing throughout the neighborhood. Brown Thrashers also continue to sing here and there, and two or three often hunt in the grass or under the bushes in the front yard. The coo of Mourning Doves, and the songs or calls of Robin, Goldfinch, Downy Woodpecker, Red-bellied Woodpecker, Chipping Sparrow and Blue Jay are heard all day around our house and throughout the neighborhood; the chatter of Chimney Swifts passes overhead, and occasionally I hear the squeaking calls of Brown-headed Nuthatches or the distinctive loud “peenk!” of a Hairy Woodpecker. I don’t hear the high, thin songs of Black and White Warblers as often this year as last – when they were one of our most frequent singers – but there’s at least one around our house and another on Summit Circle, the street I follow on my early morning walks.

Most days we hear the insistent “kee-yer!” calls of Red-shouldered Hawks circling overhead or just beyond the treeline. Occasionally, one will swoop low and suddenly across our back yard, black and white tail fanned out dramatically, and perch in the low branch of a tree on the edge of the woods. The calls of Pileated Woodpeckers are less frequent, but we do still hear them now and then, and they sometimes visit the woods nearby to feed in dead or dying pines. In the twilight, and sometimes even in the middle of the day, we hear the booming calls of a pair of Barred Owls coming from the direction of the creek, and at night, there’s the song of a Chuck Wills Widow, though it seems to be singing from further away this year. In my imagination or my fears, that seems to be a sign of things to come, as our area, like so many, becomes more and more developed, and some of the most beautiful bird songs recede further and further, until they may become only memories. Our neighborhood still has woods, fields and a good, diverse mix of habitat, but the larger, contiguous areas of both fields and woods all around us are increasingly fragmented and shrinking in size.

This summer, for instance, I rarely hear the plaintive, summery “pee-a-wee – wheee-oo” of an Eastern Wood Peewee. The big grassy, shady lawns of our neighborhood, surrounded as they are by nearby woods and creeks, have always seemed the perfect place for them – but each year their numbers have seemed to decrease. Last year there was only one I could count on hearing each day as I walked, and this year none. I’ve counted them as a breeding species, though, because I heard them singing in the spring and one morning recently I saw and heard one singing in a wooded section of Summit Circle, so they’re not far away. But most days I do not hear them – and I miss their song and their presence very much.

At least one Louisiana Waterthrush sang from around our creek in early and mid spring, but I haven’t heard it for some time now. Its song was never as close or as frequent as in previous summers, and I didn’t hear them singing in as many different areas along the creek, so I think we may have had only one or two pairs at most instead of last year’s three or four.

I also do not hear the songs of Parula Warbler or Hooded Warbler this year in the woods near our house or even in the deeper, denser woods along the creek on Summit Circle, and I haven’t recently heard the rattling call of a Belted Kingfisher flying over the creek. We’ve never had a Wood Thrush nesting in the woods near our house since we moved here six years ago, but I do still hear their liquid, fluted songs when I walk through the neighborhood. This summer there’s one that sings in an area I call Hilda’s Thicket, a low tangle of privet and other shrubs and vines and trees, and another singing in the trees around the pond behind the fire station near the entrance to our subdivision. It seems an unlikely area for a Wood Thrush, except for an abundance of privet, but it’s been singing there all season.

I have never personally seen Wild Turkey in the neighborhood, so have not counted them, but two of our neighbors have told me of seeing them as recently as last fall, and I trust them on this and hope they’re still around.

In previous summers, I heard the song of a Common Yellowthroat in the grasses and weeds of the vacant lots around the pond, but have not heard it this year, even before clearing and building started on the house that’s now being built on those five or six acres. Also missing this year is the dramatic sight and high-pitched call of a Mississippi Kite, much to my disappointment, but last year we were unusually fortunate to have them near. I have not seen or heard a single one this year, and I’ve been looking and listening.

But on the bright side, on my early morning walks, there are several sights or songs I can count on bringing a smile to my face and a happy, optimistic start to the day. Bluebirds are active everywhere every day. A House Wren’s cheery, burbling song fills the air around one house on Summit Circle, and a little further along, at the crest of a steep hill, a Great Crested Flycatcher calls; still further up the street, Barn Swallows swoop in and out of the shade of a wrap-around porch where they have nested, and over the adjacent large, open grassy yard, and a Robin sings from one of the tall old pecan trees. Both Black Vultures and Turkey Vultures soar among big cumulous clouds or circle lower overhead most days, and there’s usually at least one Red-tailed Hawk either soaring or perched on top of a pole over Highway 441 or on the edge of the Old Field that buffers our subdivision from the highway and its traffic – though this year for the first time in five or six summers, I haven’t seen or heard a juvenile Red-tailed Hawk hanging around the Old Field and screaming repeatedly.

In the Old Field, choked with blackberry thickets, honeysuckle vines, pokeweed, privet, thistles and kudzu, but graced by Queen Anne’s lace and a few late-blooming purple thistles, a male Blue Grosbeak sings in the mornings, and he and his mate call “tink!” from among the tall grasses and weeds and shrubs and trees. At least three Indigo Bunting males sing, as well as White-eyed Vireo, Field Sparrow, Yellow-breasted Chat, and Brown-headed Cowbird, and occasionally I hear the mew of a Gray Catbird.

September 26, 2005

To describe the woods, fields and yards of our neighborhood during the past week is to speak more of what’s not there than of what is. The Fall season has crept in quietly here – though quiet in a relative sense. Carolina Wrens still sing and chatter and fuss and burble, and it’s at this time of year that I always notice most their amazing vocal variety. Carolina Chickadees and Tufted Titmice still move through the trees in small gossiping bands. The “pik-a-tuk” of a Summer Tanager, the throaty song of a Yellow-throated Vireo, and the “whreeep!” of a Great-crested Flycatcher can still be heard from time to time, though not nearly as often as a few weeks ago, and there’s at least one Eastern Wood Peewee lingering in the trees down the street from us, singing broken pieces of its summery song from time to time.

The most noticeable singers this past week have been Phoebes, which begin their wheezy, brisk songs at first light and continue most of the day. This morning I heard three singing at the same time, just along one stretch of road, and came to another and another and another as I walked through the neighborhood. Wind rustles through the trees. Dry leaves and pine needles shower down in a soft clatter. Acorns plop or thunk. The shrill, thin noise of insect legs and wings and hearts is constant in the background, a few remaining Chimney Swifts twitter in small groups overhead, Bluebirds murmur from perches in the tops of trees, and noisy gangs of Blue Jays and Crows roam from yard to yard.

Nevertheless, it feels quiet, and is, compared to the musical fullness of Summer. In the Old Field, now dry and withered from a long time without rain, but flooded with the dusty yellow and dull green of Goldenrod and Ragweed, the bold, colorful songs of Indigo Bunting, Blue Grosbeak and Yellow-breasted Chat are gone. Even the sharp “plink” of the female Blue Grosbeak, which stayed until very recently, seems to be gone now – though in its place, I’ve heard the mew of a Catbird, the percussive song of a White-eyed Vireo, and the harsh calls of Brown Thrashers and Mockingbirds. The demanding scream of the juvenile Red-tailed hawk that used to sit for long hours on a utility pole over the Old Field is rarely heard now, though on the other hand, two Red-shouldered Hawks have been soaring very high in deep marbled blue and white September skies and calling frequently.

In the woods, the Acadian Flycatcher’s dry “tse-wheet!”, the Yellow-billed Cuckoo’s exotic “Cawp-cawp-caalwp,” the Mississippi Kite’s high, descending “pe-teeeew,” the repeated refrain of the Red-eyed Vireo, and the “chip-burrr” of a Scarlet Tanager’s call remain only as memories. And I guess that’s what seems most alive in this relatively quiet time – while I watch and wait for unusual warblers and other migrants that might pass through, and for the first arrivals of our Winter residents – there are good, sun-ripened memories of the Summer past.

While birds have been quiet and elusive this week in Summit Grove, butterflies seem to be everywhere. Tiger Swallowtail, Black Swallowtail and Red-spotted Purple butterflies float in and out of treetops, shrubs and over grassy yards. I’ve found Fiery Skipper, Silver-spotted Skipper, Southern Hairstreak, Gray Hairstreak, Buckeye, Painted Lady, Gulf Fritillary and Hackberry in our lantana and butterfly bushes. Clouded Sulphur and Sleepy Orange seem to like the Old Field and roadside wildflowers and weeds. And I saw one bright, sleek Viceroy butterfly on the sunny edge of a lawn.

But my favorites this week were dozens of Little Wood Satyr butterflies that fluttered every morning on the edge of the woods in some tall roadside grass going to seed, in an area where the early morning sunlight was just beginning to reach. A pale sandy-gray color, with pretty but subtle markings, Little Wood Satyrs are very common and might easily escape attention, but with so many of them fluttering among the grasses, they make this particular spot look enchanted, like a still picture that has come to life. At any one time, while most are still flying, several have paused and cling to the stems or seed-heads of the grasses, looking like paper-thin, wing-shaped blooms. A close-up look reveals two large, dark “eyespots” on each wing, and several smaller eyespots, and delicate, rippling patterns of lines across the wings that look like the tracks of water over sand.

Morning glories in several shades of pink, purple, blue and white bloom in the ditch along the edge of the Old Field, tumbling over a messy tangle of kudzu, honeysuckle, and foxtails. Smaller dark red-orange morning glory vines wind in and around privet, pokeweed, ragweed, and goldenrod. Persimmon trees are loaded with fruit. Several Mockingbirds sit on the wires over the Old Field, mostly silent, but at least two White-eyed Vireos have been singing now and then from the densest thickets. A family of six House Finches has been fun to watch, hunting just about every morning along the roadside, sometimes sitting on the wires, and chirping to each other constantly. Our resident male Blue Grosbeak, which sang all summer, is among the few birds still singing every morning – or was until about the middle of this week. He seems only to sing fairly early, from one or two favorite perches, and his plumage, seen in the right light, is still a deep, rich blue, with copper wing bars. A female Blue Grosbeak is often around, too, sitting on the branch of a bush and calling “tink!” Her color is an appealing rosy-tan, and I particularly enjoy watching her because her posture and movements show a fascinating range of personality and moods, all distinctively feminine – or at least they look that way to me.

The most colorful bird sighting this week was a Red-headed Woodpecker that flew over one morning as I was walking. The flash of its white breast caught my eye, and when I looked with binoculars, its blood-red head, white breast and ink-black back and wings stood out sharply against a deep blue sky.

There’s also been a Yellow-throated Vireo singing in the Big Oak at the corner of our cul de sac; an Eastern Wood Peewee singing now and then; two Black and White Warblers that visited the White Oaks by our back deck, quietly but busily creeping over branch by branch; two Red-shouldered Hawks soaring and calling most mornings; a juvenile Red-tailed Hawk that sits atop a utility pole along the edge of the Old Field, though not as often or for as long at a time as it did earlier in the summer; and a Cooper’s Hawk that I’ve seen twice as it flew overhead, low enough for me to see the fine reddish bars on its breast and the white band on the end of its tail.

A long stretch of very dry, warm, sunny weather has helped to turn the leaves of many trees in the neighborhood a crusty brown or yellow already, giving the landscape a somewhat prematurely faded and withered look. The leaves of river birches already lie around them in pools, and the small brown leaves of water oaks shower down in the late Summer wind, clattering across sidewalks, and beginning to pile up.

On a hot, humid, hazy afternoon in early July, I stepped out of my car at the edge of a farm pasture in Madison County, Georgia, trying to avoid stepping in one of the many fire ant nests that peppered the scrubby grass, and looked out toward a big sweet gum tree that stood in the middle of the field. Almost immediately, a bird appeared like a dreamy mirage, as if my own expectations had created it, and flew out of the sweet gum and into a smaller tree several feet away – a medium-sized bird trailing an amazingly long, thin, elegant tail – the unmistakable shape of a Scissor-tailed Flycatcher.

The sight was made possible for me by Mark Freeman, a fellow birder who discovered a pair of Scissor-tailed Flycatchers nesting here and let others know about it through a posting on Georgia Birders Online. With the permission of the landowners, he included directions to the site. My husband, Clate, and I arrived about the same time as two other couples, and we all watched the birds from the side of the road for half an hour or more – though most of that time, only one was in view. For one or two minutes, through my scope, I saw both male and female sitting together on a branch of the smaller tree out in the field. Then both flew away. In flight, their bodies looked almost like arrows, with the long tail held out straight, its thin shape swelling at the end. A few minutes later, we discovered one of the birds – we think it was the male – perched in the top of a pecan tree near the roadside, giving us a very good view for several minutes.

Even through binoculars, he was handsome, and through a scope, his features stood out well against the hazy blue sky. The head, breast, and back of an adult Scissor-tail Flycatcher are very pale gray, but to me, they appeared white, and the head and neck looked large and strong. Long, shadowy, dark gray wings extended down below the tail as he perched, and the black and white tail itself swept out majestically in a thin, stiff, shallow curve up, like the feathery strokes of a paintbrush extended preposterously far. As he perched, he looked around alertly, head held high, and he looked solid and sturdy, despite the extravagant tail. He called repeatedly, a rather liquid, loud and emphatic “preep!” Once, he lifted his wings briefly, as if to shake them, flashing the bright salmon pink color underneath them.

Scissor-tailed Flycatchers usually nest in a relatively small area that includes much of Texas, Oklahoma and parts of adjacent states, in open, brushy country, maybe not unlike the pasture where we saw them here. To find them nesting in Georgia, or even to see them here, is rare. The landowner came by while we were there, and offered to let us walk closer so that we could see the nest, so we all six walked through the gate and across a minefield of cow patties and fire ant nests — a small price to pay — and got close enough so that we could see it, barely. It was tucked into the thick leaves of the sweet gum tree, fairly high up, and we could not see it well, or tell if there was a female sitting there. But the male returned again and again to the high branches of the pecan, and we stopped on our way out to take a last look. Seeing these Scissor-tailed Flycatchers here, so close to home, reminded me of how much we most often miss of what goes on in our own natural landscape, all around us. Thanks to an observant and generous landowner, who first spotted these unusual birds and was kind enough to share them!

Photo by Clate Sanders
Click on the photo to see a larger image

On a warm morning in the first week of May, I watched a pair of Blue Grosbeaks flying around and around an old field in a flashy and fascinating way.

It was early morning as I came to the field on my walk. The noise of traffic from a nearby highway was loud, but the scent of honeysuckle drifted out from the thickets, and a miniature prairie of colorful wildflowers and grasses bloomed along the roadside. The white blossoms of blackberry vines spread across the shrubs and grasses like dusty snow, and birdsong could be heard even over the constant grumble of big trucks. An Indigo Bunting, at least two White-eyed Vireos, a Yellow-breasted Chat, a Field Sparrow, and a Gray Catbird all sang, along with the calls of Eastern Towhees, Cardinals, Brown Thrashers and Blue Jays. Mockingbirds sat silently on the wires and flew down and up again, flashing white wing patches.

A pair of small, dark birds flew low and fast across the road in front of me, one apparently chasing the other, out of some trees and bushes on one side of the road, and into the field on the other side. I watched them, and caught one in my binoculars as it paused in the branch of a chinaberry tree in pale purple bloom. It was a brilliant deep-blue Blue Grosbeak male. But he didn’t sit still long. In less than two seconds, he flew again, chasing the other bird, and when it stopped briefly on the edge of a bush, I saw that it was a female Blue Grosbeak, much more subdued in color, a rosy brown. No sooner had she stopped than the male came up beside her – and she immediately flew off again, with him right behind her.

I stood for almost half an hour on the edge of the field, watching as the pair flew around and around, fast. He seemed to be chasing her, mostly. They swooped around, she paused on the branch of a tree or bush, he flew up and stopped beside her – and she immediately flew again, with him in pursuit. This they did over and over. Sometimes I could see them when they paused, sometimes not, but they never stopped for long. They swooped low, just over the tops of the grasses, and higher, weaving in and out of shrubs and small trees, sweeping over a large extent of the field. His copper wing bars and huge, silvery bill were prominent, and his color was intensely blue. She looked more like a shadow, cinnamon colored, but when she paused on a branch, she looked alert, head held high, feathers on her crown standing up.

Since Blue Grosbeak males may arrive in their nesting territory before the females, maybe they were celebrating her arrival, or maybe their flights were part of their courtship behavior. But I’m only guessing. Little seems to be known about many aspects of the lives and behavior of Blue Grosbeaks.

Though I really don’t know what they were doing or why, the clear feeling I got from watching them was one of sheer exuberance.

The last day of April began dark, under threatening clouds, and by mid morning thunder, lightning and heavy rain had begun, and continued until after noon, followed by almost an hour of strong, gusty winds that ebbed and flowed like nausea, tossing the trees wildly, then subsiding, only to return again and again. Then abruptly, the wind stopped and the sky began to lighten. I walked out onto the deck behind our house, surrounded by clouds of wet green leaves, and found the trees sparkling with birdsong and bird activity. A Red-eyed Vireo, Pine Warbler, Black and White Warbler, Yellow-rumped Warbler, and Parula Warbler all were singing, and the song of the RE Vireo seemed especially sweet and crisp, as it went from branch to branch, low in a White Oak tree near the deck, singing intensely and fast.

Also in the trees nearby were a quiet Yellow-throated Vireo, a male Blackpoll Warbler, and a Cape May Warbler in full spring plumage. I had heard the Cape May singing earlier in the morning, before the rain began, but had been unable to spot it in the dim gray light. Now, as it moved from spot to spot in some low branches not far away, its bright yellow neck and breast, streaked with black, and its coral cheek, dark head, yellow rump, and prominent white wing coverts all stood out warmly among the green leaves.

From our front porch, on the north side of the house, I could see the clouds clearing from the West. A House Wren sang loudly and cheerily, along with a Bluebird, Robin, Chipping Sparrow and Carolina Wren, and a Red-bellied Woodpecker flew into the top of one of the trees and whirred.

I was watching a female Blackpoll Warbler that had just flown into a pecan tree, when I saw on a branch just above it a flash of red—a male Scarlet Tanager, and slightly above him, a female. For several moments, they fed in the tree, the male, “flaming scarlet,” as Peterson’s Field Guide says, with jet-black wings, went from branch to branch and flew up now and then to catch and swallow flying insects. The female, a soft, dark lemon color with wings just slightly darker, stayed closer to the branches, feeding on something in the leaves or flowers of the pecan. They could not have appeared more striking, as if posed for a photo, in green leaves glistening wet, with the clearing sky of gray and cream clouds behind them.