Time for a full dawn sit on the balcony; it’s been about a week. There’s no point in trying to get up ahead of the robins, as that would entail listening to robins and nothing else for close to two hours So 4:39 AM seems early enough. I step onto the porch but nothing flushes from the ferns. Mom and Dad are nowhere around. The kids are growing up fast:
At 46 degrees, it’s a bit nippy, and there’s no wind.
Finally, at 4:53, a Northern Cardinal emits a few tentative notes, but if anything else is out there, it’s drowned out by the robin chorus, getting louder and louder.
Three minutes before the hour, the robins finally have a competitor in the Yellow Warbler. No early-early swallow activity today; they’ve moved on to another phase of their breeding cycle, I guess. A Northern Rough-winged Swallow gurgles around five, and possibly a Gray Catbird sings some notes, but the only other bird that can be heard consistently over the robins is an Eastern Phoebe.
As Jupiter (I think) rises steadily in the east over the ridge, near where the sun will come up, a Song Sparrow sings faintly into the clear sky. In the parking lot, a spot-breasted American Robin, a fully grown youngster, hops about.
By 5:20, the robin chorus is finally dying down, and now it’s the turn of the catbirds and the phoebes, at least two of each from different directions. The Carolina Wren is back, and this morning, after taking turns in various locations, it ends up in the dead ash, facing south, caroling with all its might:
Baltimore Oriole, European Starling, Common Grackle, Warbling Vireo, Blue Jay: one after the other, they vocalize, and by 5:30, when a female Ruby-throated Hummingbird shows up at the feeder, the species count stands at 17.
And then, from 10th Street or farther away, three House Finches fly in to the near wires, calling loudly: Fern and Fernando (pictured above) and their first-brood offspring. They evidently don’t roost anywhere near their second brood. The youngster looks like it is begging to be fed, and while that is going on, Fern flies down to the parking lot and around a dumpster, presumably looking for food.
A Chimney Swift is up in the air by 5:32, and a pair of Common Ravens is circling the towers a couple minutes later. The Northern Rough-winged Swallows are finally making some real noise, though they’re not nearly as visible as they were a week or two ago.
Barn Swallow, Cedar Waxwing; two Mallards heading south. At 5:38, Grackleville starts to wake up, and there are unfamiliar sounds mixed in with the gurgling and creaking of dozens of grackles and starlings, presumably the calls of fledglings or nestlings.
At 5:42, Fern finally shows up at the nest, to be greeted by three hungry mouths, screaming at her. The ravens are now croaking as they circle slowly over the mountain.
Grackles are everywhere. Adults keep flying into the mass of trees and shrubs around the confluence, and are lost to sight. I think the fledglings stay hidden there to sleep overnight. Loud trilling signals the presence of red squirrels, and a gray squirrel also poses in the sycamore, both potentially looking for grackle snacks (snackles?).
Sunrise happens at 5:39, but it will be more than an hour before we see it. A pair of American Goldfinches climbs into the air at 5:48, and the first Mourning Dove, now a comparatively late riser, wings past. Honking from the junkyard: another raven.
I wish I could see a Barn Swallow nest from here. All of a sudden they get very loud, chittering and buzzing; I would guess that nestlings are being fed, on the side of a building facing away from me, near the river.
And then a nearly forgotten bird these days, at least from the balcony: the clear notes of a Tufted Titmouse. Late as usual, the first pair of Rock Pigeons ascends from a church roost and heads east over the mountain. Fifty more pigeons follow, mostly pair by pair, over the next hour.
In front of a wheeled contraption parked just this side of the confluence, at the far end of the lot, a pair of robins appears to be fighting, and nearby, a juvenile Song Sparrow pecks for food. An adult sparrow sings continuously somewhere behind it.
An even later singer finds its groove, so dull and boring it probably has been going on for several minutes by the time I notice it at 5:55. Red-eyed Vireo, of course, once known as the ‘preacher bird’ for its endless, dull sermons.
Now, the robins are hopping together, next to each other. Something is up: they’re clearly not rivals.
A kestrel-like shape darts past the balcony, low, but again, it’s just a robin. Up above the river, a roughie does its erratic, zig-zaggy flight before heading out to feed somewhere.
By not long after six, things have quieted down considerably with still an hour before the sun hits. Repeating last night’s routine, the Baltimore Orioles climb to the top of the maples, sing, then head off to the north toward some feeding spot, again and again. At 6:19, the first train, an eastbound, comes through.
Somewhat later, a rowdy flock of seven House Finches lands on the wire close to me, some begging, some singing, some calling, and one appearing to face and challenge me. I take it they’re a family unit, but they’re not associated with our fern denizens. After a minute of excitement, they’re off over the rooftop toward Pennsylvania Avenue.
I notice that one of the Baltimore Orioles (both male and female sing, so I can’t tell which is which when I don’t see them) has changed its normal five-note song to an oriolish rendition of the Warbling Vireo’s song; it just so happens that the vireo has been doing its flat, House Finch-like song not far away for the last half hour or so.
At 6:39, during one of my standing-and-pacing episodes, a male House Finch, presumably a juvenile, lands at my feet. At first it looks like it’s going to drink from a puddle of rainwater, but it flies to the chain link-fence barrier for a bit, then down to the parking lot. Again, not one of Fern’s family.
The robin drama has taken a turn. In front of the wheeled contraption, the pair that had first appeared to fight, then was walking in tandem, is now mating.
A starling flies over, carrying food, heading toward the interstate: perhaps one of the nesters in the concrete joints, feeding a second brood. At 6:42, Fernando shows up with food as well.
A catbird alights under my feet, searching for a meal along the edge of our building. This is the first time I’ve seen it come this close, and when I move a bit, it flushes back to the creek and emits a loud crackle, not quite as tame as some of the other local species. Still, though, it is amazing how much closer the avifauna are to me than during the winter.
I prepare for the sun to hit; it’s coming up over the highest point along Bald Eagle Mountain, and close to the farthest north it will get this year before turning around. At 7:01, we are bathed in light, real sunlight, not that eerie glow through smoke we had all last week.
Today, though, instead of bird activity rapidly dying down as it usually does around this time, it suddenly picks up again. A Red-tailed Hawk, first of the day, circles close over the interstate, and a Baltimore Oriole perches in plain view in the brilliant canopy of a maple, singing loudly. The Eastern Phoebe starts up again as well, and then Downy Woodpeckers are flying all about, perching on a power pole and then back and forth along the river, trilling and drumming. Song Sparrows turn it up a notch, which is quite the feat as they’ve already been at it for around two hours.
With the species count at 30, it’s time to go in. I catch a glimpse of an adult Bald Eagle over the river to the south, while a lone American Crow heads over Sapsucker Ridge toward Sinking Valley.