Saddam’s Sparrows
After Saturday’s wild weather, Sunday has a bit of a hangover: staid, a coldish 34, cloudy with a breeze. No close robins, and by 6:29 AM it’s all very subdued. In the second half-hour the dominant sound about town is the monotonous chirp of the House Sparrow, which sometimes reminds me of Saddam Hussein. I was noting back in 2003 that this species would photo-bomb news clips from seemingly every corner of the planet. Whatever human drama was happening seemed to have a Passer domesticus soundtrack. (If I recall correctly, it was around this time they were observed learning how to trigger electric eyes to get into stores in New Zealand, a behavior that quickly spread.) A particular pre-invasion video I remember with great clarity from the military-commercial-news drama of the time: Saddam flanked by his two sons, screaming defiance, denying the WMD. In the background, the incessant chirping of House Sparrows.
At 6:50, a molting juvenile Bald Eagle heads to the airspace above Sapsucker Ridge, and—a good sign—starts to circle in the wind. But elsewise, the skies stay pretty empty this morning.
Just before the hour, a faint series of ‘chips’ along the river grows louder, the mistakable sound of Warbler # 2, the Louisiana Waterthrush. Above, the Common Merganser pair rushes by, fifty yards under the still-circling eagle.
A Belted Kingfisher rattles from downriver, and at five after, a Cooper’s Hawk rips through town, scattering starlings and sparrows in the pinkish-orange light. A Purple Finch calls, heading east.
Kinglets and Hermit
On a quick walk to the pond (now just Canada Geese and Mallards), I barely am out of the car when I hear Golden-crowned Kinglets. A small flock along the river, with a Brown Creeper. Further down, a kinglet comes nearly to my hand. I’m interested in its cousin, the Ruby-crowned, but it hasn’t shown up yet. This is peak GCKI: Plummer’s Hollow has twice recorded 62 individuals of this species, a county high, the first time on April 5, 2020 and then again on Oct 29, 2022 during the fall peak. I don’t have time today to do a count, but numbers in the woods are probably similar to past years.
I grab two days of data from the garage and do a quick circle of the field. It’s pulsating with Song Sparrows, each seemingly singing a slightly separate song. Field Sparrows are also moving through in numbers, Fox Sparrows are still here and out in the open, while Dark-eyed Juncos, trilling like mad, are getting ready to head out. The first Hermit Thrush I’ve seen this season eyes me from close by, then wanders off.
Warbler Number Two
I have to give pride of place to that wandering winter Yellow-rumped Warbler back in February. Today, though, the first true warbler of spring is around, in a resounding fashion. Coming up the road, I stopped to try to snag a pic of a highly agitated Louisiana Waterthrush in the lower Hollow. It’s no longer there on the drive down, but a pair chase by the gate and head across the tracks. Above the bridge, upriver. another one zips across the water, emitting its piercing song: warbler on steroids.
This species always seems to be in a terrible hurry. Five or six pairs will soon be divvying up the Hollow, while another three or four will go for the sub-optimal habitat along the river. They’ll court, breed, nest, raise young, make a whole lot more noise, get ready, and be gone, all by the middle of summer. They’re serious tropical birds: I’ve seen them already back in the Honduran rain forest by July.
Concrete Nuthatch
In the clear evening, I count Turkey Vultures, making it to 117. The local White-breasted Nuthatch comes in around seven to a power pole by the river, eying me too intently to make much progress finding anything it might have happened to cache. Then, before I know it, the nuthatch has attached itself to the ugly concrete wall just below and to my right, the side of a garage that blocks my view of the river. It hatches this way and that, probing for Lord knows what. Later, I hear it calling, on and on into the dusk, from up Bald Eagle Creek somewhere. At 7:53, when I head inside, Turkey Vultures are still coming.
Bald Mountain
At 6:28 AM on this fine Monday, a clear 27 dropping to 25, American Robins are fighting savagely in the parking lot below while the Carolina Wren releases its first ‘cheeseburger.’ The walls reverberate with House Sparrow.
By 7 AM, the dawn has produced a solid 20 species. A particular European Starling, perched in the nearest sycamore at my 3 and apparently involved in nesting around the front side of the building, is going through an extensive repertoire: robin, Killdeer, Carolina Wren, Blue Jay, and possible something that is supposed to be a kestrel.
At 7:19, as the first rays bathe ‘shady side’ (‘sunny side’ is still in shadow), an adult Bald Eagle comes over the top of Sapsucker Ridge and is joined by another flying in from the north. For the first time from my balcony, I hear them emit the chatter call, and they settle in to perch on trees just below the crest. One lasts about five minutes before flapping south, upriver, while the other stays until the half-hour.
Just after, three caroling Blue Jays alight on the nearest sycamore, more unafraid of me with each passing day. I’m now square on their morning route, it looks like.
Ghosts
A slow afternoon on the porch. At 2:26, a male Northern Harrier, which bears the moniker ‘Gray Ghost,’ migrates through a local Turkey Vulture crowd; for once, the light is so good I can clearly see its gray plumage even at a mile’s distance. An hour later, another goes by, but clouds have taken over and I can’t make out the color. The rest of the afternoon raptors, save a purposeful Red-tailed Hawk, are the local crowd.
Death of a Turkey
For some reason, I start to wonder about Wild Turkeys: do they ever venture down the west sides of Bald Eagle or Brush mountain? The considerable obstacle of I-99 would seem to prevent them from casually crossing to the Little Juniata River, at least if they were walking. It would be cool to glimpse one from the balcony before leaf-out, when I can still see the interior details of our woods that border the freeway.
Paola calls me just before arriving from school: something that looks like a turkey is smashed along the highway. We swing over to the Grazierville Mennonite store for coffee, then head back via the interstate. Sure enough, directly in the lane of Exit 48 to Tyrone is a crushed mass of turkey, wing feathers jutting up. Poor thing.