The antenna came down on Sunday the 26th. It will be months before I’ve fully analyzed the recordings. The days have blurred together, with work assignments crowding out the chance to walk or even leave the house.
Arrival of the Teens
On Saturday the 25th, a lone Canada Goose honks over town not long after six, perhaps flushed out of hiding by a hunter on the first (real) day of deer season. Leaving the woods to the hunters, I feel the same cold they do as the temperature drops to 19 degrees by 6:24 AM, more a January day than a November one.
Around 6:47, a small group of Song Sparrows arrives from somewhere, flight calls bouncing around the confluence. A Bald Eagle arrives as well, just after seven.
A House Finch flies across the clear sky, crossing by Venus, singing lustily. Nine more head east, following the same path they did yesterday.
At 7:12, a mixed flock of American Robins and European Starlings spirals silently down into the tall trees. After a while, the two Common Ravens who stayed behind coast resolutely down from the towers, toward the junkyard or the tracks.
Golden
The early week is so busy that the increasingly savage weather barely registers, and I only have time to do the minimum, bird-wise: a quick visit to the balcony, a few species in a handful of minutes. On Monday, that’s a five-minute period around 7:30 sparked by a glimpse of a massive shape out in the fast-moving clouds. I’m out in time to see a Golden Eagle speeding south. In the background, an unusual sound: a Golden-crowned Kinglet, 1/100th the mass of an eagle, issue its high-pitched cant from somewhere in the confluence trees. This species is a regular along the river this November, but hard to hear from the balcony.
Starlings’ Bane
On Wednesday, a half-hour slot materializes and I suit up for the teens again, tromping about the dusting of snow on the balcony. We’ve reached the configuration of species that will hold until the vultures return in February, though robins and starlings are still not present in high numbers: no doubt they have many areas to feed in yet, but eventually, the horde will arrive to strip every last fruit.
The mornings, all spectacular, have less and less bird activity compressed in a shorter and shorter time frame. It’s all very predictable at this point, with the highlight the frenetic gatherings of starlings in the two tallest trees, a poplar and a sycamore. After all this time, I still can’t tell if they gather there for the strategic vantage point or the chance at some early sun, but I’m tilting toward the former.
At 7:48, the starlings in the poplar at my 10:30 erupt in disarray, and then a few more are kicked up in front. A Cooper’s Hawk appears in hunting mode, flying from left to right, scattering more starlings from the sycamore at my 1:30 as it threads its way through the confluence. Hot on its heels is a second—they definitely appear to be hunting as a pair.
The Wrens of Winter
On Thursday, with the dawn woods off limits and the pond deep-frozen, the main option for a walk—before my legs atrophy—is along the tracks to see if the local duck crowd has stayed around. It’s silent at the bridge, and I don’t hear a bird until 6:49, when a Northern Cardinal begins to call from the woods on Laurel Ridge, above the tracks. A couple minutes later, a staccato chatter turns into a waterfall of sound from the cliffs—a Winter Wren. At the same time, a second wren sings to my left, between the tracks and the river. For a minute or two, they carol in tandem.
I step into the brush to avoid a train, and three Mallards swim off from the bank. The 25-degree rush of air from the train creates a brisk wind chill, and without a pond to worry about, I plunge into the Redstart Swamp through jagged winter privet to see if any more ducks are in the Little Juniata’s cold current. No luck.
Back at the bridge, a flock of half a dozen Golden-crowned Kinglets, together with a pair each of Black-capped Chickadees and Tufted Titmice, passes through the trees, heading downstream.
You're a great writer. :) (And Birder of course)