Infernal
The river is swollen with meltwater from yesterday’s snow-and-ice-and-freezing rain event. Right now at 6:33 AM, the first Song Sparrow carols and everything feels exciting but a bit confusing. Thirty-three on the way to 70, clouds rushing east and colliding with the ridgetops: wind up there, calm down here.
Blue patches above and a healthy pink in the east. The Northern Cardinal ticks, and at 6:34, an American Robin dives silently across my balcony, rushing to its own first sit spot, while another starts exclaiming from over by the VFW. Other than a few Black-capped Chickadees and a faint Common Raven, all is silent for ten more minutes.
And the train. Screeching, grinding, clunking, banging nearly to a halt, it takes almost ten minutes of its own to lumber past—ten minutes of lost calls. Meanwhile, a pungent Mephitis aroma corrects itself to cannabis from somewhere nearby. The starling vanguard arrives, a single, pipping around and around above the favorite sycamore perch. After a minute, three more arrive and they all do the ritual.
Finally, at 6:49, the train is gone and a House Finch sings not far away. Seven Common Mergansers, flashes of brilliant white and black against gray-brown Sapsucker Ridge, follow their customary flight path southwest, upriver. The Downy Woodpecker vocalizes early, for once, at 6:52.
The three starlings head to the middle interstate light, but as often happens, after a few minutes the junkyard raven swoops up and displaces them.
At seven on the dot, a male Common Grackle angles down from Bald Eagle Mountain somewhere, and without veering off course goes directly to the sycamores.
Today, the story is the infernal light. Just after sunrise, the eastern sky goes orange and more orange. A handful of grackles joins 25-odd starlings in ceaseless eruptions from the back sycamore, across the sky and around, breaking into smaller groups, never alighting for more than a few seconds. They refuse to land in their favorite tree, the front sycamore. If they are alarmed by something, though, I never see it; the only other indication something is amiss is the sharp ‘peek’ call of the Downy, given multiple times, and then, uncharacteristically, a rattling ‘whinny’ call at 7:10, repeated two minutes later. I’ve not heard it give this call here before, though it could be unrelated to whatever is riling up the others.
Species activity begins to wane as the orange fades; there doesn’t seem to be enough wind aloft for raptors today. I am pleased to able to recognize the junkyard raven high up and disappearing over Bald Eagle Mountain, from the missing part of the outer primary.
In my notes: Today, no geese, no crows, few ropis, no malls again…Some post-storm thing. Well. A pair of Canada Geese finally appears at 7:26 following the merganser flight path, as the sun starts to pour through the trees on the first slope of Bald Eagle Mountain. For once, a Mourning Dove has stayed around, and I take its rapid flight across town as a sign it’s time to get ready for work. Just 17 species.
Stirred Sky and Swans
At 8:33, the text from Dave up on the mountain: swans going over rn. He sees three groups of about 25 each but when I drop what I’m doing and rush outside, all I get are crowds of American Crows and a loud flock of Canadas coming into town. A person in the parking lot stares at the geese, confused; the first time this year I’ve seen anyone down there glance up at birds. Everyone’s stirred up by the weird weather, I guess, Dave texts.
Indeed. I get that odd, excited vibe from the air again, which results in multiple trips outside and finally, a temporary relocation of my home office to the balcony.
At 10:36 AM, an eight-minute break yields a Golden Eagle over Bald Eagle Mountain, along with a Bald Eagle, Red-tailed Hawk, and more crows and ravens than I’ve seen together in awhile. Apparently, the winds are coming from just the right southerly direction to favor some migratory movement, and I assume the Golden is part of that.
At 11:03 I move outside for 41 minutes, catching the height of the movement. An odd call resolves itself into three Purple Finches (PH200 #66); they had been perched nearby, I think, but are off southward, giving their distinctive flight call as they flee. They’re a classic example of the types of birds that get stirred up by weather like this.
Another oddity, which I see again in the afternoon, is a Northern Harrier. Perhaps it’s on the move as well? No more Golden Eagles, but I do see the full complement of local raptors making good use of the updrafts, including multiple appearances by the Cooper’s Hawk, which I don’t tend to see at dawn anymore. I am also treated to seven Tundra Swans in a small V, beyond the towers, high and heading straight north. At 2:13, thirteen Ring-billed Gulls drift over the Gap, also northward. A 14th straggles a few minutes behind.
Eventually, by 4 PM, the mercury touches 70.