Does the Turkey Vulture See Its Shadow?
Coldest dawn of the year so far: 16 degrees and as clear as I have seen 2023.
No birds before 7 today — too much noise, too many trains, to hear flight calls.
Junkyard Raven
A Common Raven is honking and croaking from off by the G&R facilities that have enveloped the old tannery, an ancient hotel, and the gritty spaces under the interstate. I can’t imagine the exact attraction this junkyard has for the raven, but there are certainly hiding spaces aplenty.
At 7:09 AM, a loud ‘teakettle!’ (alternative: ‘cheeseburger!’) from across the river, just as JR breaks out from its junk piles and flies across my field of vision.
A pair of Mallards buzzes high over Bald Eagle Mountain from out of the Gap. I imagine, with this cold, the pond has frozen over and a duck diaspora of sorts has been the result. We’ll see later today.
The Northern Cardinal, Black-capped Chickadee, and Tufted Titmouse all start up around 7:12, and by 7:15, House Finches are about as well. Rock Pigeons first emerge in an uncharacteristically large flock of 34, plus a single outlier that eventually joins them after they circle to altitude and begin heading over the mountain’s flank. I wonder about the function of this outlier pigeon; I frequently see one separate from the main flock.
At the confluence, a pair of Mallards are swimming, something I haven’t seen in quite awhile, and more evidence that ponds are frozen up.
The sun has moved back across the Gap and will now rise from behind the very toe of Bald Eagle Mountain. A little earlier each day, but a little farther north, so a little farther to rise above the ascending ridge before it appears here in town.
More Rock Pigeons than usual are commuting today, and the European Starlings are slowly gathering and singing at the top of the tallest sycamore at my 1, one of their favorite dawn haunts. Never the huge numbers today that we had when the fruit trees still needed to be stripped, but at least they’ve not abandoned us altogether.
The First Cardinal Song
The earliest we talk about spring is the beginning of February. The strange intertwining of hedgehogs, groundhogs, and candles marks 40 days since Christmas, the end of all that winter, and simultaneously—whether or not rodents see shadows— the time to start preparing fields. One starts to look for signs of spring beyond the swelling buds of poplar and willow. This is particularly tough when you know it’s supposed to get into the single digits tomorrow.
But for today, the cardinal has begun to sing. Unlike chickadees, titmouse, and wrens, the local cardinal abandoned its dawn songs these last months. Today, however—maybe it’s just the abundant light—a few hesitant phrases over the last week have become a full-fledge “chew, chew, chew” over and over, starting around 7:33 and going continuously until close to the top of the hour.
Not its most elaborate song, but it’s a start. After around ten minutes of singing from the brush along Bald Eagle Creek in front of me, hidden by some garages, the melody moves off past the VFW, but an insistent ticking nearby suggests the female has stayed closer.
The starlings, today, have also performed a sort of sun-worshipping ceremony, gathering at the top of the first tree to see the rays. Against the cardinal background, they’re loudly gurgling, clucking, and cheering to each other. A Mourning Dove speeds past me, falcon-like, heading upriver.
18 Feels Like 19
Still, no breeze, but the mares’ tails are assembling in the huge sky. The Downy Woodpecker allows me to grab its silhouette from a local favorite bird perch - a robust dead tree at my 12, directly against the interstate. The dawn settles into day with the mixtape of woodpecker, cardinal, and starlings. My ever-faithful weather app reminds me that, though the air temp is 18 degrees, the ‘real feel’ is actually 19.
After work, I head to the pond. 35, sunny, and calm. A Common Raven is hopping around the field enclosed by the I-99 northbound exit, searching for something. I can’t see this field from my balcony, but I suspect starlings, ravens, and perhaps finches and sparrows use it often when they’re disappearing from my field of vision.
As I approach the pond, a Great Blue Heron flushes, heading to an encircling tree and then, minutes later, off across the sky in broad, ungainly circles. The heron flushes from an ice-in end of the pond: I wonder if it was planning to roost here? Indeed, the pond is duck-less, even though a small ribbon of open water still exists at the far end.
So the ducks are on the river now. This means doing something I’ve been able to avoid most of this winter, a scramble through thick and scratchy riverside tangles for a view of a secluded patch of relatively still water below an island. Three Mallards there is all. Time for dinner.
At 5:09, from the tracks, I spot three Turkey Vultures over Sapsucker Ridge. To my surprise, they spiral slowly across the Gap and disappear over Bald Eagle Mountain, heading north, looking for all the world like the very first migrants of the season. I think they’re not—still too early. The species winters locally, and I’ve seen them both to the south and the north this winter. Nevertheless, it’s a nice touch for Groundhog’s Day.
The day isn’t done yet. At 5:21 PM, a single Common Merganser (a male, like all the ones I’ve seen this winter) goes over coming from the west and through the Gap.