Hairy Woodpeckers convince me to collapse in the easy chair this Sunday evening. The two are as loud and active as the pair I watched yesterday up on Laurel Ridge. But something’s up—this is the first time I have ever seen the species from our balcony (I heard one once last fall), and not only that, they’re on the nearest power pole. They move quickly to the river where I hear them for a few more minutes, and then they’re gone, to be replaced by one of the local Downy Woodpeckers.
A bit after seven, one of the Broad-winged Hawks that lives on Brush Mountain appears from Sapsucker Ridge and circles over the apartment for a few minutes. A Cliff Swallow makes wide circles nearby, then a Chimney Swift rushes right past my face. I wonder: have the young swifts fledged yet? I confess I can’t tell. Day to day, numbers of swifts in the air over town, the river, and the mountains rises and falls depending on where the bug clouds are, but the overall population seems to stay in the 20s. I often see three swifts together, but I saw swift trios at the onset of nesting as well. Nothing definitive yet.
And then…the Cliff Swallow swoops down toward the river and dives up under the interstate, not reappearing. This looks very much like a nest site, but probably impossible to be sure, as there is no vantage point to check properly. It makes sense, though, as one to two Cliff Swallows often forage over the interstate at this time of day.
I wonder: why is a female Ruby-throated Hummingbird trying to get nectar from the dead tips of a box elder down at the confluence?
I head in early tonight, eyes burning from a blanket of wood smoke drifting out of the VFW parking lot.
Monday Morning
By 5:23 AM, the Gray Catbird who lives in the box elder is doing Barn Swallow, Red-winged Blackbird, and Wood Thrush, and it doesn’t shut up for over an hour. Even the American Robins are upstaged. Mourning Doves come and go from behind a garage over Bald Eagle Creek, puttering about on the vines back there and then flying down out of sight. They often fly up to near wires and eye me, perhaps accustomed to humans giving them food. This morning, one faces me, cooing, then puffs up. When I get up, it turns its back on me.
5:45 AM. I am startled as two Mallards zoom over my head, narrowly avoiding the roof, and at the same moment, a nearby Common Raven croaks loudly at a higher pitch than normal, just as a huge, juvenile Bald Eagle crosses past the ducks, skimming the treetops of the confluence, heading downriver.
A little after six, what appears to be a clunky, young House Finch flutters down to the paved lot to take a drink at the remaining puddle, then wanders around a bit awkwardly, not really looking for food. I’m losing track of the local finch population, and last evening, there wasn’t much activity from the fern family; perhaps they’ve thought better of re-colonizing my porch.
A Hairy Woodpecker calls again.
At 6:24, our favorite two House Finches burst onto the scene, all noise and action. They check out the baskets, then Fern settles into the nest while Fernando hangs out on a near wire perch and sings.
For the first time this year, I see Red-eyed Vireos from the balcony (still haven’t seen Warbling Vireos, though they continue to sing nearby). The Red-eyes are doing their nasal scold in the nearly bare tops of the nearest sycamore, of what I don’t know, but it attracts a hummer as well. The two vireos take off toward the confluence, and seconds later, a Blue Jay shows up. Reason enough for small birds to be alarmed.
The sun hits at 7:02 AM and Fern finally leaves. I inspect the nest, and sure enough, she has laid the first egg of the third brood.
In the evening, it feels a bit like summer. Haze and clouds and hazy clouds, humidity, low 80s. At 6:40, an Eastern Wood-Pewee is calling from the trees beyond the confluence, but for just a few minutes: “pee-a-WEE…PEE-a-wee.” Down, then up; up, then down. I wonder what brings it here during breeding season: perhaps something as prosaic as a good drink of water in the river. It is also possible that the confluence is the far edge of its territory, somehow, or perhaps it is looking to do some extraterritorial socializing.
At seven, a Cliff Swallow is up, while the rest of the swallows—Barn, Northern Rough-winged, and Tree—stay low over the river, barely visible. Eventually, both the Barn Swallows and the roughies will perch on the near wires, but the Cliffs and Trees never do.
High over the Sapsucker Ridge point, three Common Ravens are gamboling in the breeze, while on the towers, the Turkey and Black vultures prepare to depart.
Teenagers.
A male House Finch, perhaps Fernando, is being desperately supplicated by a hungry juvenile, which droops its wing, raises its tail, and makes a begging call, over and over.
The adult is unmoved, however—no food to regurgitate—and after about ten minutes of this it heads off with the juvenile in hot pursuit. Meanwhile, pairs and trios of Common Grackles fly this way and that about the ever-more active jungles and canopies of Grackleville. The most common scene is a gangly juvenile nipping at a larger adult, almost attacking it in its quest for a meal. When they alight on the dead ash, juveniles often walk around with their mouths agape, a none-too-subtle suggestion that dinner is expected.
And then, a modest kettle of around 20 Turkey Vultures appears in the Gap over Laurel Ridge. The ceiling is high today and the vultures drift this way and then, nothing spectacular; a few come and go from the roost west of town.
Right after 7, the Carolina Wren begins to teakettle, loud and close. Chimney Swifts rip by at impossible speeds, skimming the balcony or heading down over the river, while others feed at all levels of the atmosphere. In one optical illusion, a swift nearly collides with a passenger jet.
Doldrums
It has been awhile since I’ve added a new species to the Plummer’s Hollow 200. I’m getting ready to consult the experts on a pile of shorebird calls from May, but nothing obviously new jumped out at me. Looking at last year, I see that by the end of June, Plummer’s Hollow had recorded 165 species whereas in 2023 we are already at 187. We finished 2022 with 185. I feel pretty confident! I’m also happy to see a trickle of birders in the Hollow enjoying the Worm-eating Warblers and Louisiana Waterthrushes (I can tell from their eBird lists).
A minor concern to many, perhaps, but I have noticed that the balcony cardinals have gone silent. Tonight is pretty much my solstice sit; it’s not quite the longest night of the year, but the next two have activities. Regardless of the fact that sun doesn’t set until around 8:48 PM, activity is dying down well before 8 PM, a combination of where species are in their breeding cycles and the thick haze that seems to be diminishing light levels early.
At 7:40, a Great Blue Heron flaps solemnly southward, high above Bald Eagle Mountain, heading toward the Little Juniata River. But then, it makes an abrupt U-turn. Passing close by the towers it keeps going, circling once, then continuing north out of sight. I can’t remember ever seeing a heron do that; I wonder what the literature says about birds thinking better of their endeavors.
At 8:19, seven Common Mergansers emerge in tight formation over Brush Mountain, heading west, and in a split second are gone. They did not appear to be adult males. I wonder if it was a mixed-family group of juveniles. Apparently mothers ditch their own young pretty quickly, and these go on to associate between different broods and do their own thing; my only hesitation is whether they’re old enough to fly so well already. I also saw a pair of the species yesterday heading north along Bald Eagle Mountain, after a couple weeks with virtually no sightings.
Endless Catbird
Like this morning, but now in a duet or competition, two catbirds vocalize for well over an hour, louder than I’ve heard them all season. At 8:38, a Northern Cardinal finally sings, and then a Baltimore Oriole emits a few bars. The Yellow Warbler, however, is long gone: brood done, and no second one to follow, I would like to guess there was no need to stick around, or else this species, unlike all the others, goes completely silent (though I did hear one on Saturday down by the pond). Otherwise, perhaps the brood reached a gruesome end.
The dusk is amazingly protracted these days, and by the time the hour of sunset rolls around, the light is so poor that only three species are left in action: American Robin, Gray Catbird, and Chimney Swift. A dozen or so of the latter species over Sapsucker Ridge are already sharing the air with a large bat.
Spring Ends with a Pair of Quacks
After nine, I expect to mark the day’s end of each of the three species, then be off to bed as well. But for once, something unexpected happens. First, not at all unusual, I hear distant quacks that can only be from Mallards. Then I spot a couple waddling down the sidewalk on 10th Street, coming from the direction of Pennsylvania Avenue. They wisely head into the parking lot, and in the gloom, I can make out two nearly full-grown ducklings. One is quacking plaintively and the other is making wheezing, whistling sounds. Growing up with ducks, I would know that sound anywhere: they’re lost.
They wander around the parking lot for a few minutes, start to head back to the street, then turn around and come my way instead. They make a right turn and waddle directly toward me, past the car, still calling loudly. (I am reminded of that old children’s book, “Are You My Mother?”) Then they turn around and head off toward the confluence. The last we see them they have disappeared down the bank, still quacking. But at least they are back in their element.