I dreamed I found and was keeping in my house a young Ivory-billed Woodpecker that was acting for all the world like Kevin in Up. I was in one of the lairs I’ve inhabited back in IBWO territory, the Yazoo Delta or Baton Rouge. The result, no doubt, of the US Fish and Wildlife Service’s non-declaration of the species’ extinction, even as it consigned Bachman’s Warbler to oblivion. I’m intrigued by non-mentions of the hard-fought battle numerous IBWO searchers and scientists waged to keep the IBWO off The List. The truth, as they say, is still out there.
Arrival
The air’s clear and 44 on Monday, and we’re nowhere near a frost. Dawn is quickly getting later, heading toward the darkest mornings of the year prior to Daylight Savings on November 4.
I’ll need to dig into Margaret Morse Nice’s work on Song Sparrows to figure out why the local males are singing their hearts out right now, long after most other species (other than permanent-resident Carolina Wrens) have stopped. Is it still juvenile males practicing for next year’s breeding season before they head south? Or are they marking territories they may return to?
Things would certainly seem more dreary if Song Sparrows weren’t singing. The Rock Pigeon commute has rapidly dwindled this October, very few waterfowl are about, and the House Finch population is 20% of last year at this time. Even the European Starlings are barely showing up. In all, discounting frenetic House Sparrows in the hedges, this makes for quite inactive dawns.
This morning, the big news is American Crows. Last week, they had been appearing by the dozens, typically emerging above the rooftop from a roost west of town, and flapping slowly toward Brush Mountain. Yesterday, that stopped. Today, at 7:16 AM, 78 crows go over in a single, strung-out flock, more than I have ever seen at one time from the balcony. In all, I count 91 over the course of 20 minutes, all heading to Brush Mountain and probably Sinking Valley on the far side, eventually.
I think these are crows from the north, here perhaps for a few days, weeks, or months. The species withdraws from much of its Canadian range after breeding season. Fine with me: the more crows, the better.
An odd happening at 7:33 AM. An American Robin alights on a nearby wire, faces me, and begins to yell. Out of nowhere: it’s been months since a robin has been this close or perched on a wire. Within seconds, another robin lands near it and does the same. This goes on for a couple of minutes, and then they’re off. I suppose they’re here to join the growing horde feasting on wild grapes up in the mountains; by November, flock numbers in Plummer’s Hollow may climb into the hundreds.
At 7:3 AM, a hulking Common Raven flaps low past the library and out of sight, carrying what looks like a gigantic chunk of bread in its beak.
Gray Tuesday
Matching the mood of the world, Tuesday’s dawn is somber but for the Song Sparrow. A pair of Mallards is all that’s left of the waterfowl; every morning they appear from somewhere, flying high into the Gap, or out of the Gap. Crows start up by 7:15, but only 21 appear today.
At 7:50 AM, a huge Great Blue Heron skims the parking lot on a trajectory from Bald Eagle Creek to the Little Juniata River upstream.
Faint Pink Glow
At 7 AM on Wednesday, it’s in the low 40s and we’re still frostless. Nearby Song Sparrow flight calls accompany the first distant singer. At 7:03 AM, what I would think is the same Great Blue Heron from yesterday flies by in the semi-darkness, heading upstream on Bald Eagle Creek. Eight minutes later, the Mallard pair goes over in the same direction.
At 7:25 AM, a pair of Common Ravens is cavorting in the faint glow of the sky during the two minutes that the gray shifts to pink cloud ribs; they head east toward Brush Mountain, silently, then out of sight. The sky shifts back to gray.
By 7:30, only a faint crow noise has been heard, and the House Finches are hard to see out along Bald Eagle Mountain as they exit town through the Gap. I think there are still 40 or more total in town, but the morning flight path of most of them isn’t anywhere close to me.
At 7:38, 34 crows appear, strung out in bunches of three and four, all on the move toward Plummer’s Hollow, in a beeline from their roost. Some of them are calling as they fly, but nothing very raucous. Over the next few minutes, 14 more pass over.
At a quarter to 8, a robin spirals down out of the gray, acting very much like the starlings do at this time of day. The robin doesn’t head for the interstate lights as they do, but rather alights somewhere in the trees along the river, upstream. As soon as it lands, it begins to call loudly.
A few minutes after that, eight crows roar through the parking lot and confluence, threading the trees as they move downriver. They’re part of the same congregation, but they have decided to stick close to the ground.
Back to Fog
On Thursday at 7 AM, an inaccurate weather source tells me it’s 32 degrees outside and clear. Somewhere, maybe, but not in Tyrone. Here at the flats it’s in the low 40s and foggy. No frost anywhere to be seen.
A few of the regulars sound off, but nothing can be seen. Even the House Sparrows are buried in the red hedge. Finally, at 7:40 AM, the heron-of-the-week flies downriver through the trees and then lifts up and over, deciding on Bald Eagle Creek instead. I grab the camera and it gets confused, going this way and that in a couple circles above my head, then eventually flaps off toward Burger King.
The fog thickens. A House Sparrow flushes east—second bird seen—and then a young, curious, speckled starling sees me and flies into the wire to examine me for a few seconds. Then it’s off to join some invisible, wheeling flock over 99.
At nine minutes to the hour, I glimpse five House Finches flying over low and calling. As the church bells toll, I head in, but glancing out a few minutes later, I see that an American Robin has posted up to the dead ash, the first time I’ve seen one do this in a very long time.