As a House Finch, one must consider mortality. Not one, but two major plagues, conjunctivitis and West Nile virus, have decimated this species in recent decades, and yet, at least in Tyrone, it has managed to rebound. How it does this probably isn’t much of a mystery. Of all the local species, this one has the most number of broods; as one hatches, Mom goes on to lay the next in another nest while Dad tends to the young. But that doesn’t imply success: only half of the attempts are successful. On our own perch, Fern and her mate carefully tend five eggs while at the same time helping to keep a single offspring fed—is that all that survived from the first brood?
The three are constantly together: the offspring even visits the ferns with its parents, though I’m not sure what it’s up to.
Multiply this across the porches and other sundry niches of the borough (HOFIs have certainly figured out a way to avoid the fat ‘n fluffy cats stalking all around). Last year, it was hard to get an idea of how many House Finches lived here, until along came the September flock. At that point, everyone seemed to be roosting in a single copse of trees along Bald Eagle Creek, and every dawn, they would head out in groups of 30 or 40 at a time toward Brush Mountain or somewhere upriver, calling and singing. I could easily count them as they passed the balcony, reaching a maximum of 332 on September 21, after which the roost size steadily diminished.
Now, admittedly, there may have been a migratory element present as well, but given how many pairs and small flocks I was seeing in winter just in our corner of town, I wouldn’t be surprised if our own House Finch numbers are in the hundreds after breeding is done.
Meanwhile, the current pre-fledgling Chimney Swift population is difficult to estimate from my vantage point, but seems to consist of at least 50 breeding pairs, as well as singles that often tag along with the pairs, including spiraling and then plummeting, head last, into the three chimneys in close view of the balcony where pairs are most likely nesting. Later in the summer, swift numbers will increase with the young to match the bug clouds, and as they leave town in September, others will show up, or perhaps the locals all go to roost over by the paper mill. Last year at that time, they, like the House Finches, became countable, as every last one streamed out of a couple defunct industrial brick chimneys, up and over Bald Eagle Mountain at dawn, within the course of a few minutes, reaching a peak of 298 on October 6.
I don’t think I’ve seen Chimney Swifts mate on the wing, but it seems they would be capable of it—on Monday evening, I watch a pair, close together, tumble heads over heels downward above the river before streaking off.
The Chase
A lot of chasing is going on these days—nothing like feeling the rush of air and buzz from a Ruby-throated Hummingbird pursuit, I’m assuming of the amorous variety. Up on the mountain, a male adopted the driveway to do his seesaw display a couple years ago; we should be so lucky as to have this happen here. I do think a female will have a nest somewhere in Grackleville this year, but I can’t imagine being able to spot it.
Before sitting on the balcony on Monday, I go up to the mountain for spring water and flight calls, and it’s the same up there: the early nesters are perhaps on their second broods while simultaneously dealing with fledglings, while the later ones are just now settling down to nest. Blue-gray Gnatcatchers should be well advanced: I watched a nest last year up in the locusts at this time; today, I see one chasing another through the walnut trees, while the insistent ‘kak-kak-kak’ of a Cooper’s Hawk sounds from over by the powerline somewhere.
By the garage, a male adult Eastern Bluebird looks very much like it is being begged from by a female; I think that might be a juvenile from the first brood. I wasn’t able to follow their story very well, so don’t quote me on that. At the same time, Cedar Waxwings, up here as in town, have become as noisy as American Goldfinches were two weeks ago. Like the finches, they will wait until as late as late June or July to breed, so they have plenty more time for courtship, nest selection, and whatever else they are up to these days.
Too many species to keep track of; too much going on! One that is obvious is the Blackburnian Warbler: a breeding pair from the first group of conifers down the road has a territory edge in the yard, it seems, or perhaps the male has gone extraterritorial, as so many warblers do after the female is on the nest. After twenty minutes of nonstop song from a high walnut perch, he still isn’t visible, so I play a snatch of song in response. He immediately goes silent, and I catch a glimpse of him flying back toward the nesting trees.
Tuesday’s Child
From the balcony, no bird is as visible or vocal right now as the European Starling. Like the House Finches and House Sparrows, they are well into their second broods or beyond, so parents are busy gathering nest materials while stuffing their offspring with food, or avoiding doing so; the young are practicing vocalizations—oh, joy!—and seeming to quickly adopt the aggressive lifestyles of their parents. Here’s the Starling of the Day for Tuesday:
It’s a shame that we don’t have Rock Pigeons nesting close enough to glimpse their home lives, as unsanitary as those are. Unlike all the other species, lifetime pigeon pairs mated, laid eggs, hatched, and fledged throughout the winter. Still, they always manage to get enough seeds in a short enough time that they can also spend hours of each day wheeling about the air, not for the purpose of feeding but for, well, you tell me: play? exercise? some form of kinetic group communication? Certainly a contrast to the bolus-forming, gulp-or-die-of-hunger Chimney Swift activity.
Sawbills and Buzzards
On Tuesday morning, the unusual balcony highlight is four female Common Mergansers, heading east into the Gap, not very high up and looking intently for a place to land on the river. I see singles, pairs, and groups of either males or females on occasion, but not every day now. They nest in trees and not necessarily anywhere close to the river, and it doesn’t appear their broods would be fledged yet, unlike the Mallards. When they do fledge, I look forward to watching them from the Plummer’s Hollow bridge, and perhaps they will even show up at the confluence, not that I will be able to sight them through the foliage window.
On Tuesday evening, the comms tower is being recolonized by Turkey Vultures.
Henslow’s!
I've have had next to no time to work on nocturnal flight calls, but by sheer luck the other morning I dipped into the midnight tape for May 17, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but, at long last, the visually unmistakable flight call of a Henslow’s Sparrow!
This was a major target bird for the year, and a new hotspot record. It wasn’t unexpected, as this scarce grassland species nests in abandoned strip mines not far from here, and occasionally even shows up out of habitat, but I knew the best chance of detection was in the air.
During the same minute of 12:26 AM on May 17, I identified a series of three low pips as the flight call of an Alder Flycatcher, the Empid I missed on the ground after stomping around all Creation the last couple of weeks. Along with some new shorebird records, these two bring the Plummer’s Hollow 200 to 187, but it will still be a steep climb. Nevertheless, I expect it should top 190 after full examination of May and early June NFCs happens; I’ve got a small folder of unidentified shorebird vocalizations already, so that may help. They include a way better Dunlin, apparently more Whimbrels, better Pectorals, and who knows what else? I would rather detect them now than in the Fall when species such as the American Golden-Plover will be largely covered over by insect noise all all-but-unrecognizable.
Up Past Nine
And finally, a drum roll for the balcony species now edging their diurnal activity past 9 PM. The list is up to three, and growing slowly by the day, toward the latest evenings of the year, June 27th and 28th (the earliest mornings are much sooner, on June 14 and 15). American Robins don’t give up until after 9:15 now, while a local Gray Catbird still does an occasional meow or creak just after the hour, and the last Chimney Swift chitters pasts in the near-darkness of 9:03 PM.