Now the serious business of southward migration is in full swing. Enough practicing, enough hiding, enough molting, enough begging from mom and dad. Tens of millions of young birds, from hummingbirds on up, that have been in this world for all of two months, now must figure out how to get to that one tree or bush or field or lawn in Brazil, or Honduras, or Florida, or wherever, or die trying.
Quick and Dirty Tuesday
At the almost unthinkably late hour of 7 AM, I run up to grab some more NFCs, just as warbler hour is set to begin. A quick circuit of First Field ends up lasting two hours. I never learn.
Cedar Waxwings are dripping from the black cherries, and I manage to count around 255, a high for the year. It’s hard to believe that Red-eyed Vireos will soon be gone; at least 30 are in the cherries today, and several are singing. A Brown Thrasher, chuck-ing loudly, is a nice surprise. Not that much else of note, but tomorrow, I’ll have a bit more extra time.
As Bright as It Gets
On Wednesday’s plane of the ecliptic, a crescent Venus rises as the full Moon sets.
Jupiter is flanked by its four largest moons, and between it and the Pleiades, Uranus is faintly visible.
From the neck, I can also watch the rising of the dog star, Sirius, the brightest in the sky . Earlier in the month, Sirius rose together with the sun, a phenomenon known as “heliacal rising” that marked the ancient Egyptian New Year. By the time the sun rises today, it will be invisible, however; only Venus and Jupiter will be still shining.
This morning it’s clear with a slight breeze and in the mid-60s. The field is soaked with dew. At 5:53, the Whip-poor-will calls, then the Wood Thrushes and Eastern Towhees awaken and the truncated dawn chorus begins. A small bat dives into the goldenrod close at hand.
By eighteen after the hour, both a Hooded Warbler and a Common Yellowthroat are singing, and an unusually early Palm Warbler calls a few feet away, over and over. I’ve noticed that several species of ground- and shrub-layer warblers do this: a dawn call sequence rather than a dawn song. Last week, the Ovenbird was doing a dawn call sequence almost every day.
Six minutes later, a fee-bee signals the first Black-capped Chickadee, and it is immediately followed by a dee-dee-dee from nearer to me. Chickadees are getting louder by the day.
At half past, as the last bats dive into cover, the first green darners come out, getting ready to continue their own migrations.
The lull comes at 6:33, and just as I am thinking that the Red-bellied Woodpeckers should be vocalizing any time now, they start making noise. Fingers of fog begin to creep into the corners of the field, somehow.
A Tennessee Warbler sings, and warblers begin to tumble and rush about the treetops, their ticks and chips unidentifiable. A Ruby-throated Hummingbird a warbler across the field. The fog burns off as quickly as it appeared, and it’s another sunrise for the ages.
Warbler Hour has several surprises today: Mourning Warbler calling from thick brush. Wilson’s Warbler darting about inside the warbler catalpa. Pine Warbler. Female Black-throated Blue Warbler; this one’s been scarce all year here. Two Nashville Warblers. A late (for here) male Canada Warbler.
Later That Same Day…
As usual, I’ve been cooped up inside at the computer all day, but when I help Paola carry some things to the car, I hear that familiar, piercing screech and look up just in time to see a Broad-winged Hawk circling in the brilliant sunlight. I quickly gather my work gear and head to the balcony to catch the tail end of some updrafts and see what else is about. Not much, it turns out, but it’s a reminder that the September Buteo clouds are at most two weeks away.
Close to 7:30 PM, I grab a half hour on the balcony in the rapidly-cooling air. The hummers seem even more excited than they usually are, but I can’t tell if it’s the same or different ones zooming by the feeder every couple minutes. The American Goldfinches are also up, active, and noisy in the wind, not that they’re ever quiet.
Change is definitely in the air. At one point, above Sapsucker Ridge, a white, wispy cloud heads north, crossing above pinkish, fluffy clouds lower down heading south. I can’t rightly recall seeing this phenomenon before, and I have no idea what it’s called.
Turkey Vultures that had earlier returned to roost are now strung out in a line from the edge of my vision along the roofline above me, to the point of Sapsucker Ridge, some 40 at all. Updrafts also bring eight Black Vultures in a single flock, the largest number I’ve seen in many months. A Bald Eagle briefly joins in the fun.
After all the other birds are gone, Chimney Swifts rule the air, a boiling mass of them over the confluence, some 123 in all. I have to wonder whether these aren’t southward migrants that use our chimneys for awhile. Last year, I noticed that swift numbers increased throughout September, and the species lingered even past the first frosts. They appear to be much more cold-hardy than swallows, presumably because they roost deep in tight chimneys, all packed together for warmth (or so I picture it).
This seems like the first fall evening, one night before the commencement of “meteorological autumn.” The weather bot proclaims it “good weather for sleeping.”
The Last of It
It’s now Thursday. Might as well give the field a break and see what the tracks have to offer. I’m down by the pond before six, but nothing is stirring. Orion’s spectacular and Venus as bright as a UFO, hanging over the sewage treatment plant.
I hoof it back to the crossing with only the call of Green Heron so far. Then, it’s all American Crows. I heard a weird sound from terra nullius earlier when I walked by, and now about a dozen of them are getting very annoyed about something there. I’m hearing them make some quite odd noises. I check the area out, but I can see nothing out of the ordinary.
There are no warbler clouds down here, at least not today. It’s not a wash, but I get the distinct impression that all the action’s up top.
Northern Cardinals are the most vocal active species now. An adult male perches obligingly in the first sunlight along the tracks, with one of its brood, a young female (I think, judging by some begging and feeding) tucked up next to him.
Incongruences
After a mild day, all the clouds in the sky have been eliminated. A good sign: we’re heading for some serious cold (for this time of year) over the next couple of nights, so I’ll get to see what’s on the spectrum.
I take a brief 20 minutes on the balcony before dinner, because you never know. And sure enough, up pops a Double-crested Cormorant, coming east over Sapsucker Ridge from god knows where. This is only the second fall-ish record for the hotspot. The first was last year in early September, when one floated up from terra nullius while was underneath it, leading me on a wild cormorant chase. Last year’s was channeling an Anhinga, as they sometimes do, circling on flat wings and splayed tail. Today’s cormorant was simply speeding west, flat out.
At a quarter to seven I’m back out, and a Broad-winged Hawk promptly obliges me by flying directly over the balcony, westward. Just after seven, a flock of 60 American Crows converges on the point of Sapsucker Ridge, the largest aerial group of this species I’ve seen all year.
As is customary, a Mourning Dove flies up to the wire to peer at me. This is truly one of the most expressive and beautiful of birds!
Not much else happens; American Robins fly back to roost almost surreptitiously, and as the bright light fades, a sunlit Osprey cruises slowly southward.