Blistering hot afternoons fizzle out to delightful evenings, and only the most adventurous of the gnat plague make it as far as our balcony. At a quarter after six on Tuesday, better than 25 Turkey Vultures are still hanging out on the larger of the two comms towers.
Around the half hour, my primitive knowledge of robin language pays off. One is perched on a wire over by the river, emitting a long series of ‘seets’ as it gazes my direction. I learned that this means ‘warning: aerial predator!’ the other day, so I get ready. Sure enough, within a minute, an adult Cooper’s Hawk flies close over my head from the direction of the library, chased by two Chimney Swifts and a Barn Swallow. It disappears to my right, through the river sycamores, and after a few moments, the American Robin sentinel ceases its warning and departs.
Soon, the town belongs to crows and ravens. It starts with a trio of Common Ravens who pop up into the dead ash snag. They are joined by a few American Crows. These then all head off toward the direction of the railroad station, low to the ground, cawing and croaking. The real story this evening, though, is the Fish Crows. During the course of a half hour, they pass overhead from upriver somewhere and disappear toward the interstate. They’re in singles and pairs, and some juveniles are mixed in—noticeably smaller, with blotchy brown plumage mixed with the glossy black.
At least nine pass over, but hearing their odd calls both in front and behind, I get the distinct impression that there are more about. Most are clearly out-of-towners engaging in a molt-migration of some sort, a post-breeding foray, most likely from up- or downriver. Otherwise, there hasn’t been more than a single nuclear family in Tyrone all summer.
What’s strange about all this is the constant movement about town, which continues on Wednesday, of all three corvid species. I wonder what’s going on?
The evening tapers off to inactivity after 7:30, without any of the dusk songs I’m accustomed too. Perhaps it’s the heat, or else the time of year. The Barn Swallows, at least, are back. This evening, one became two, then three, and by 7:45, they’re up to a loud and gregarious flock of seven.
The Young and the Restless
Wednesday’s dawn is a chance to circle First Field before heading to work. It’s dank and foggy in town, but up on top, the sky is clear. A heavy coating of dew but few bugs, and the sun rises through a late summer haze thick enough to show off its pulsating black sunspots.
As usual, I sit at the sweet spot in the neck of First Field for a bit, trying to sort out the ticks and chips of waking warblers back in the tangles. Pieces of something seem familiar, but I’m hesitant to make a call until I can get a look. Eventually, though, it’s unmistakable: among the caroling, trilling, and otherwise boisterous Carolina Wren families, a House Wren pops out. Smaller, browner, and even faster than its cousin, it skitters here and there among the grapevines, goldenrod, and black locusts, staying within a few feet of the ground. At one point, it has a tiff with an immature Hooded Warbler. A few minutes later, another appears. I count two, but there may be more.
As you will be aware if you’ve been following Bird Mountain, House Wrens disappeared at the end of May, and this is the first I have seen them anywhere on the hotspot. I don’t think I missed them during breeding season, because they’re not the most cryptic species, and I searched this area repeatedly. Nevertheless, here they are, exactly in the place they breed. Molt-migrants, I presume, and I’m overjoyed to have them back, as they remain one of my favorite birds (and a fixture of the Americas, found from northern Alberta all the way to Patagonia).
Scarlet Tanagers are about in a variety of plumages: standard adults, but also including ones I haven’t seen before. The juveniles seem to have a complex molt process of greens, yellows, and even white feathers, and are a bit more curious than their elders.
Hooded Warblers, as well, are highly variable. These days, no two individuals seem to have quite the same plumage, though it’s always some combination of green, black, and yellow.
Common Yellowthroats, Indigo Buntings, and Field Sparrows are still about in dizzying numbers, but I lack the time for a decent count this morning. The juveniles are all getting faster, and, one would hope, a bit wiser. They’ll be on the move within weeks, but will be replaced by more. The habitat here is ideal for migrants, with an open fringe of black locusts we have maintained over the years, shading the dense goldenrod populations that have all but supplanted the field grasses. The edge of the field is a complex, fractal composition of vines, thick invasive and native shrubs, rotten logs, snags, and tall trees, anchored by black cherries loaded with green fruit. The Red-eyed Vireos and Cedar Waxwings are all over the cherry trees, as if counting down the days until the feast.
No Tennessee Warbler today, but Merlin hears a skulking Hermit Thrush which I later glimpse. This one’s likely a molt-migrant as well; they nest in higher-altitude forests but begin to trickle back into our mid-elevation woods at the height of summer. With enough effort, it might be possible to turn up a Veery or even a Swainson’s Thrush: the antenna has revealed both species on the move in very low numbers.
Another find is a solitary and quiet Warbling Vireo feeding in a black locust. I have stopped hearing them from the balcony, and I still have no hotspot records of this inconspicuous species from the first half of August. At least I can see it up here: I never once saw it from my balcony this summer.
As for the nocturnal antenna, I’m barely keeping up with the scores of warbler zeeps and other calls, along with dozens of Wood Thrushes and the requisite Chipping Sparrows, now joined by more Field, Savannah, and Grasshopper sparrows. The dominant identifiable night-flying warbler is the American Redstart, which I take to be either beginning its long-distance migration or just generally molt-migrating to where it will stage.
Every now and again, I snip something that seems like a Dickcissel, or a shorebird I don’t yet have for the Plummer’s Hollow 200, but it will be a while until these can all be sorted. So far, the July shorebird migration has been far better than last year, with multiple Short-billed Dowitchers, Spotted and Solitary Sandpipers, a few Least Sandpipers, and a Lesser Yellowlegs. No Black Tern, however, which was one I got last July. The katydids are gradually emerging, so it’s only a matter of time until the night sky is hidden.