Easter at 5:42 AM is a bone-chilling 27, with the temperature dropping. It’s a Sunday balcony dawn, and the idea is that Sunday + holiday = quiet, thus seldom-heard distant species can be detected.
Someone tell that to Norfolk Southern. I’ve never seen so many trains on the Lord’s Day, much less during a major religious celebration. Oh, well: it’s so cold, the birds mostly just do their winter thing anyway, singing loudly but briefly. At 7:08, with no trains and a break in the extremely sparse vehicle traffic, there are a few seconds of complete silence, when even the American Robins appear to be rethinking this whole spring deal.
The robins get over it, though, and keep up the melody while the rest of the chorus is, at best, desultory. Nevertheless, I manage to log 29 species, including most of the regulars. They’re in quite small numbers, quickly flying to their feeding spots, not lingering in the calm sky. Only the Rock Pigeons elegantly ignore the weather and lack of wind. They depart in flocks over the mountain, one after the other, long after the other birds have settled down.
I call it a dawn at 7:44 AM, and with some trepidation decide to take a quick walk to the pond—just some exercise, nothing interesting expected.
Something Totally Unexpected
The April sun quickly burns my less-than-full head of hair, even with the temperature below freezing. Down in the area of the pond, things are unexpectedly active. American Goldfinches are sitting on the treetops, singing their hearts out. They’re much more active here than anywhere near my balcony.
Three Wood Ducks are at the pond, a male and two females. They see me and take off the other direction, calling. As always, a Canada Goose and a pair of Mallards aren’t going anywhere. Down in a wetland on the other side of the tracks, skunk cabbage catch the sunlight.
My list is already over 30 species, so I decide to check out the area along the tracks on our property heading toward Tyrone, somewhere I have ignored all winter. To be specific, it’s the stretch between the Plummer’s Hollow Crossing and the I-99 overpass. Better to be thorough. The woods that climb up Sapsucker Ridge are old and diverse, but separating them from the tracks is a nearly impenetrable belt of privet, which by this time should at least have a Ruby-crowned Kinglet in residence. In the winter, it’s pretty much the purview of a handful of cardinals, juncos, and White-throated Sparrows, so I rarely go into it.
At around 9:20, I hear the unmistakable ‘chip’ of a warbler. It’s coming from the deepest part of the privet. A Pine or Yellow-rumped would be higher up in the trees, I think, so what else should be around? Not a LOWA; gotta be a Palm Warbler. I ‘pish’ and out pops something small, warbler-y, but not bobbing its tail, as every Palm Warbler everywhere would be doing. So it’s between a Tennessee Warbler—bit early for that, though—or, dare I dream, an Orange-crowned Warbler!
It hasn’t stayed still or come out in the open long enough for a good look or a photo. I play TEWA on Merlin: no interest. I switch to the eastern subspecies of OCWA, and NOW I’m playing its tune. It circulates around all the nearest privets just a few yards from me, and moves through some of the higher trees as well. Time for me to get some shots off; it’s the first April record of this scarce migrant for the county, and only the second report overall for Plummer’s Hollow. I definitely did not have it on my radar for the spring; I had yellow-listed it as a potential miss in September/October, when it migrates through in somewhat higher numbers.
Thus begins Warbler Mania.
After about five minutes, the warbler flies across the tracks, and I decide to leave it alone. However, more chipping is coming from the thicket behind me. Perhaps there’s a pair; I don’t wish to disturb it/them, further. I’m out.
More Surprises
I should have had more faith: Easter isn’t done with me yet. Stepping out to the balcony after four, I startle a trio of Fish Crows fighting over scraps. Like several other species, they are using the tops of the power poles as perches while they eat. Here’s the one who got the scrap:
A bit later, my endless staring at the river below the confluence (not hard to do—it’s directly in my line of sight) pays off. I spot a bright white garbage bag floating around under the interstate supports against the far bank. Magnified, it becomes a male Common Merganser, with another male and a female. They’re feeding vigorously and diving under the water. I was wondering if they ever have the guts to get this close to town; when they’re speeding overhead they often act like they’re thinking about it, but shy away at the last minute. The confluence, on a normal day, right behind the VFW, has people and dogs running about, but today it has been pretty much deserted, so maybe that’s why they came by for a visit.
I’m nearly certain this is the local pair, with another male, perhaps the one I sometimes see flying solo. Whatever the case, it’s nice to see them close up for a change.