Saturday was a rare late night so Sunday’s sit starts with the sun of 7:14 AM.
A yellow-shafted Common Flicker, noisy, preening, perches on the nearest sycamore, which barely got its leaves this year. In over a year I have been sitting out here, this is the first decent view of the ‘suburban surprise’ woodpecker, a perpetual mystery to the denizens of Facebook. Around this time of year, flickers show up on well-manicured lawns, sparking the ‘OMG WHAT is this bird I have never seen it before!’ type of posts. I’m not quite sure where this one is in his cycle, but I do know that hatching and perhaps fledging should be concluded by now. He flies off, upstream, and another calls from downriver.
A Ruby-throated Hummingbird is fascinated by its reflection in the glass upstairs, but, thankfully, doesn’t take to bashing itself. The song of an Indigo Bunting, Sunday specialty, penetrates a few hundred yards of foliage and robin song, all the way to my balcony. Common Grackles, as always, everywhere. A mom feeds her begging fledgling, head in throat.
Toward the evening, an extratropical cyclone takes shape, embracing much of the United States: strong storms in Colorado and around New Orleans, outer arms. Here, rain creeping closer, darkness coming quickly. Mallards fly about in male-female pairs, and as a patter begins, the elusive Belted Kingfisher rattles from the river, out of sight. Perhaps it has been nesting in the hotspot, between here and the Gap, or maybe upstream somewhere, on the river or the creek.
A Case of the Mondays
Pouring.
Mid-morning, I take out the recyclables and my head brushes the fern. A loud peep and one of the nestlings explodes from the hanging pot. Doomed, it flaps with all its might, too young to do more than coast downward through the storm, face-planting in a puddle on the municipal parking lot. I rush down to try to recover it, but terrified of the last monster it will see, it skitters under a formidable pickup truck to hide. Chance of survival: nearly nil.
In the afternoon, when the rain abates and the pickup departs, I find its immobile body where it tried to hide, soaked, stiff, forgotten. Five eggs, three hatched, two left. We’ll see what tomorrow brings. I need to be more careful.
Rainforest
I clear my head with a trip up to get more night calls. Presumably, the migration will be just. about. over. By the bridge, another accident: smashed SUV, sheepish passengers, flairs, one lane. The Juniata Formation cliffs and the river don’t leave much room for careless driving or worn tires.
All up and down the Little Juniata, Northern Rough-winged Swallow pairs skim the water surface. Up in First Field, Barn Swallows are doing the same to the goldenrod: bugs are low in the eye of the cyclone. Chimney Swifts, at least a dozen, aren’t much higher.
Song Sparrows young and old are perched all over the utility wires. There are certainly many softer landings for myriad fledglings up here, and given the sound of the late afternoon chorus, I’d say twenty or more species are tending to their first broods, as the army of weasels, snakes, hawks, crows, jay, squirrels, and other nightmares encircles them.
Down in the Hollow, the light gap looks more jungly than ever.
The Eastern Wood-Pewee nest is still active; I think I can glimpse a parent sitting on it.
It Ain’t Over ‘til It’s Over
I keep thinking that one last Swainson’s Thrush, over the course of an entire night, will be a fitting end to Spring Migration 2023 (easy to forget it’s not even summer yet!). There’s not much time: by the end of the month, when I started taping last year, Ovenbirds, American Redstarts, Veeries, and Wood Thrushes were already on the move, if not south, then somewhere to grow and molt, or raise another brood, or something else we know little about.
Instead, we’re still getting mini-deluges. On Wednesday evening, into Thursday morning, the 7th and 8th, the night starts with what sounds very much like a Dickcissel, at 9:38 PM, and then that late-late migrant, an Alder Flycatcher, goes over at 9:54. This is the third or fourth of the season. After midnight, a Common Yellowthroat, a couple of Swainson’s Thrushes, some unidentifiable warblers, and at 3:16 AM, a Common Nighthawk to round out the sparse night flight.
Thursday into Friday is a different story. Two Virginia Rails—one at 9:39 PM and the next at 12:21 AM—are hard to explain. Are these perhaps local breeders moving about already? A Green Heron at 1:07 AM might be a late migrant, but could also be a summer resident.
A Wood Thrush and at least one each of Veery and Scarlet Tanager vocalize (the two latter species emit some night calls that are virtually identical and better left as “passerine sp.”). Are these juveniles moving away? Males and/or female adults whose first nesting attempts failed? Or perhaps they are birds who couldn’t find mates or territories in the first place, and are trying their luck elsewhere.
And the Swainson’s Thrushes! Dozens go over, usually singles but sometimes groups. I have a policy with this species: it’s the only one where I just clip selected calls out of the spectrum to save, and then try to estimate hour-by-hour counts.
Best of all, a Gray-cheeked Thrush goes over together with a Swainson’s at 13 minutes after midnight. There are very few records of this species in the second week of June here.
Friday night into Saturday starts out more slowly, with just a single species before midnight (a Swainson’s Thrush, at 11:31 PM). But after midnight things pick up, and though there are fewer Swainson’s, several Indigo Buntings show up, along with a smattering of warblers including a very loud and clear NFC that sounds like part of a Black-and-white Warbler. At 12:34 AM, a Green Heron goes over, again.
But the Swainson’s Thrushes aren’t done, by any means. Saturday night into Sunday goes off the rails. They are audible by 9:52 PM, with the largest group of the night at 11:33, which has over 10 Swainson’s in it as well as a Gray-cheeked Thrush.
At one minute past midnight, a crisp and clear Grasshopper Sparrow ‘seeps’ through the sky. Another mystery: whence and whither??? Same for the Chipping Sparrow at 12:28 AM.
A Green Heron squawks past at 3:52 AM this time.
Sunday into Monday: things die down quite a bit, but then, it’s in the middle of a storm. A Swainson’s Thrush flies over at 9:29 PM and then again at 1:17 AM; a warbler at 111:20 PM; a Green Heron at 11:42, and that’s about it.
No recordings for Monday into Tuesday on account of the electricity being out (it’s not back on by Tuesday morning). By the end of the week, I should have more recordings as we approach the solstice and the clocks start to run backward.