Birding Notes

The sun hovered just above the horizon, ready to go down, a huge red shimmering ball; the sky was pale blue and empty, except for a high, bright gibbous moon in the east. I was on my way home, walking fast, fingers numb from cold, when I saw a flash of wings and the long tail of a Cooper’s Hawk as it flew to the middle of a bare-limbed oak and perched there. All I could see as I walked toward it was a tangle of branches and a silhouette from behind, but as I got closer, it flew and passed straight in front of me at eye level, leaving a very brief but vivid image – almost as if it hung in the air and reflected the colors of the sunset – of blue-gray back and wings, glowing red breast, flashing eye, and long banded tail of dark and lighter gray, with a wide band of white rounding the end. It flew directly into the dark green depths of a large magnolia, where it remained, well hidden, even though I lingered until after the sun had gone down, and turned around several times to look back when I finally walked on up the street.

Late this afternoon – another cold, damp, dark gray day – a small flock of Rusty Blackbirds fed in the bleached-brown grass of a yard down the street from our house, beneath bare-limbed pecan trees. Still in winter plumage, the black males showed a lot of rusty or cinnamon color, especially across the wings, head and back, and the females were even more handsome, in tawny shades of tan and reddish-brown, with a prominent dark eye-line against a pale brown face. Rusty Blackbirds are only here in the winter, but it might be argued that we get to see them in their most appealing colors. In breeding plumage, the males are all black and the females are blackish gray – but during the fall and winter, they glow with the varied rusty highlights that give them their name.

Flocks of Common Grackles – larger, glossy black birds with long tails, large bills, and harsh voices are common here in the winter, and occasionally Red-winged Blackbirds with their more appealing “con-ka-reee” calls will join them. But Rusty Blackbirds are much less common. As these moved restlessly from one yard to the next, they also seemed shyer, more easily startled into flight, and less noisy than other Blackbird flocks.

A cold, gray day. Heavy rain yesterday and last night left muddy water standing in roadside ditches and puddles in potholes. In mid-afternoon, as I walked through the neighborhood, the landscape looked drenched and dreary, bare-limbed trees against a featureless sky, soggy pines, cedars and bushes, and brown, wet grass.

In a low branch of a bare-limbed pecan tree, an immature Red-shouldered Hawk sat quietly, its breast creamy-pale and streaked with a bib of dark brown. As I walked near, and paused to lift my binoculars, it spread its wings and flew, showing muted bands in its tail. It flew low, through a line of cedar trees, and disappeared from my view, but flying slowly, as if it did not intend to go far. From the cedars, I heard the calls of White-throated Sparrows, and the “see-see-see” of Golden-crowned Kinglets.

Just four days ago, on another cold, dark, gray afternoon at about the same time, I saw another Red-shouldered Hawk sitting on a low branch in a tree in the yard next door. This one was mature. It looked large and impressive, its breast glowing a rich red-orange in the gloom of the afternoon.

Under a cold, gray, mottled sky and the icy threat of freezing rain or sleet in the forecast, a warm yellow Pine Warbler clung to our bird feeder for several minutes, flying off only to chase away another male Pine Warbler nearby. When it left, a reddish House Finch took its place, along with a Downy Woodpecker and, briefly, even a Ruby-crowned Kinglet. An energetic Brown Thrasher tossed aside leaves from a site among our front yard bushes, feeding on something it found there. Yellow-rumped Warblers darted all around the house and yard, calling out “chek!” and “chek!” like leaves stirred up by the wind.

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.