Having spent the morning in a sterile waiting room, I figure I’ll do an afternoon sit to watch the warmish day wind down before a return to winter, basking in the last time we’ll see 50 degrees. It’s been ages since I did this, so I’m not sure what time town birds return to their roosts in January. Maybe 4:30?
At 3 I’m out; a skateboard punk wanders over to check out the receding flood, but otherwise, not much is happening. A couple pigeons circle, the Downy Woodpecker calls, and a Common Raven dives about up by the telecomm towers on Bald Eagle Mountain.
In warmer months, the mile-distant towers are a focal point for raven-raptor interaction, but this time of the year, I’m not expecting anything settling down to perch.
Raven Ballet
I don’t really know what else to call this. The single raven moved off toward Brush Mountain, but two more arrive over Bald Eagle Mountain and begin an intricate series of moves to the left of the antennas, straddling the ridge crest. They sink and rise in tandem, sometimes touching wings, tumbling one above or one next to the other. They drop at breakneck speeds, nearly into the trees, then up, then down, dizzying. This goes on for at least five minutes before they disappear beyond the towers.
At 3:32, pigeons start flocking, and other bird movements signify they might be winding down the day: House Finch, House Sparrow, and European Starling, sometimes joining each others groups in flight, then breaking off.
Vulture Kettle
A few minutes later, my incessant scanning of the northeastern horizon picks out six Black Vultures. A sign of changing times, indeed! We’d never had them in January before, and now, twice in a week. They are near the northern edge of their range; Black Vultures only arrived here a couple decades ago, but they’ve never been as common as Turkey Vultures, which sustain a large roost on the edge of Tyrone and should become a prominent part of this story in a couple of months.
Black Vultures don’t have the amazing senses of smell for carrion that Turkey Vultures do, but they do have keen eyesight. This group looks like they may be done with the workday, however, and are getting set to head to their roost; they kettle higher and higher and eventually disappear beyond the towers. I saw a pair arrive from the south and join four from the north, and I saw a pair the other day to the east. They form long-term pair bonds, so I could be seeing three of those, or some sort of family association. Whichever it is, I am elated to see a raptor kettle in winter.
Meanwhile, a single raven is now in the Gap, climbing, diving, climbing, diving, croaking.
Velociraptor!
At 3:48, a light blotch in a tree along Bald Eagle Creek 325 feet away at my 10. The local Cooper’s Hawk— a juvenile, it turns out—is doing its own afternoon sit.
It seems completely unfazed by the noise and traffic, but isn’t making an effort to catch any prey, either. Nevertheless, it never stops observing, constantly swiveling its head, I presume to keep track of bird movements. Starlings usually perch in those trees, but today they give the copse a wide berth, and hang out, gurgling, at my 2 instead, in the tops of river sycamores.
Every few minutes a couple dozen take to the air, joined sometimes by House Sparrows, House Finches, and Rock Pigeons. The Cooper’s Hawk never leaves its perch.
Sunny Side and Shady Side
At 4:21 PM, sunlight turns to shadow, and the raven ballet is back, to the right of the towers and closer this time. A wing whistle at 4:29: three Mallards close over my head, dropping decisively into Bald Eagle Creek. It’s all winding down now, later than I thought it would. I’m hoping the Bald Eagle and Great Blue Heron will soon pass over, but today, they’re nowhere to be seen.
The Cooper’s never moves, always observing, and once, lifts and seems to examine a talon. At 4:46, the local Downy Woodpecker starts ‘peeking’ from an invisible perch along the creek, not far from the hawk and closer to me. It does about 40 calls a minute.
At 4:55, the Pennsylvanian rolls through from Harrisburg, a bit late. This small Amtrak train still stops in Tyrone, a relict of our railroad glory days. The Downy continues to call, as the last House Finches return to town, and the sun, which had made a reappearance and turned the hawk a reddish-gold, finally disappears for the last time. The air is turning cold, and the hawk finally shakes itself, crouches, and fluffs its wings a bit.
A float of Rock Pigeons against crystal blue sky signals dusk. This I know: they’ll go on into the nautical twilight. I’ve seen flocks of 100 gather up over the main part of town, pirouetting in tight formation, for no tangible reason I can discern.
At 5:02, the Cooper’s Hawk explodes from its perch and heads straight west at eye level and out of sight, calling once very loudly. At that same moment, the Downy Woodpecker goes on mute. Sixteen minutes at 40 calls a minute = 640 calls. I have to wonder whether it was ever aware of its vulnerability. Whatever the case, it’s not calling again.
I’m getting up now as the full moon rises by the towers.
I feel the rush of wings from the tannery raven that swoops less than ten feet over my head, croaking loudly, and dives into its roost under the interstate. First to rise; last to return. I look up into the twilight sky at 5:10: a trio of pigeons is still circling. They’re just getting started.
At 5:36, a text from my brother Dave up on Brush Mountain: Barred Owl calling. We make it 45 for the Plummer’s Hollow 200.