Nights have been warm and a bit rainy, and the migrants are pouring in, some to lurk for a day or three, and some to stick around for the summer. The antenna is a pleasant challenge: with so many nocturnal migrants, it can takes hours to go over, extract, ID, and upload a single recorded hour. New species abound: Greater Yellowlegs, White-crowned Sparrow, Black-billed Cuckoo, Bobolink…
Balcony Update
Sits will be rare this month. On Sunday, I sit for an hour prior to our outing to Ohiopyle and Mount Davis. The Yellow Warbler is now one of the earliest risers, its sweet song echoing through the darkness already at 5:34 AM. A few minutes later and that old familiar, the junkyard raven, is out and croaking beyond the interstate. Some of the standbys from the sparse months behind us: House Finch; Mourning Dove; Song Sparrow; Northern Cardinal. The inimitable American Robin. NKOBs Baltimore Oriole and Warbling Vireo start up in quick succession around 5:53. Finally, the gang’s all here: the resident Gray Catbird I first heard yesterday afternoon has arrived and taken up residence in the bushes along Bald Eagle Creek, blocked from my view by a garage. For now, its strains are still hesitant.
By 6 AM, a respectable 25 species are on the boards, and the chorus begins to fade. Nothing much is up in the air but Chimney Swifts and an occasional European Starling; these days, not many seem to be commuting, except Rock Pigeons and a handful of Common Grackles that still head doggedly out through the Gap every morning.
It’s a quiet Sunday, so I can also hear some of the fainter songs: Blue-gray Gnatcatcher from downriver, quite sparse in this area; Wood Thrush from beyond the interstate. A sublime but all-too-brief sunrise fades to gray, and I realize that the Carolina Wren has gone missing. They have territories all along the tracks and river, but none have stayed in this patch. These days, it’s hard to even remember that back in the lean months, the wren was often the sole exuberant songster for weeks at a time; now, it’s just one of around 60 species getting a word in at dawn.
Finally, the sky brings a surprise: ten Blue Jays, flying high up in formation, swoop down into the sycamores nearby. I have been seeing migrants in larger and larger groups these days, coming from the south at dawn; they spend hours in the trees along the river, mobbing me when I’m about, and then head on. They’re daytime and mostly morning migrants, and in some locations are seen in the thousands.
The last part of the balcony ritual is waiting for swallows. The Downy Woodpecker sounded off over half an hour ago, and Turkey Vultures no longer appear at dawn, so now the end of it is marked by the chattering of Barn Swallows and the gurgles of Northern Rough-winged Swallows. These both show up, in pairs, right at 6:30 AM. We’re off.
Mimic the Mimic
I have until 7 on Monday to sweep the north end of the hotspot: pond, Yellow Warbler swamp, river, tracks, terra nullius, privet jungle, balcony, and confluence. It’s 61 degrees at 5:30 AM, and the rain is not long past. Bats are all about as I pace around the tracks near the Plummer’s Hollow Run. With this warmth, the dawn chorus has become a veritable Brucknerian full orchestra, but with dissonant notes that belong to Gray Catbirds, not content to drown out not only whatever Brown Thrashers might have been in the area, but also nearly everything else as well. Prior to 6 AM, they are flying about, checking me out, doing their crackle calls, meowing, and duping Merlin: Hermit Thrush? Northern Mockingbird? European Starling? Nope, on all three accounts.
Oriole Earworm
Mostly, it’s a stretch to say that bird songs are melodic in the sense of a catchy tune that you go away whistling. But here’s one you won’t soon forget. This particularly Baltimore Oriole: did it think up the second part of the 7-part tune in whatever tropical forest it spent the last eight months? Oriole calls are endlessly complex, particularly at dawn; a cursory search of Merlin doesn’t bring up any that are similar to this one, and I can’t say I have ever heard it before.
At a quarter ‘til, the Rose-breasted Grosbeaks are waking up: they have settled into one of their favorite habitats in the hotspot, the dense woods of Sapsucker Ridge just above the privets. Then, a Least Flycatcher from the tall trees, ‘chebec, chebec,’ over and over.
A deliciously tropical, woodsy odor wafts from the mountain, a nice accompaniment to all the new tropical avifauna. A Carolina Wren can now be heard, but nearly overwhelmed by the Wood Thrushes, American Robins, grosbeaks, catbirds, titmice, and others. And here’s a Warbling Vireo in a new spot! A high ‘tsee’ marks the alarm of a Veery, a passage migrant that is surprisingly common in these May woods, but rarely seen as it lurks during the daytime in the thickest thickets.
By 6 AM, 32 species have already vocalized, and only a few Common Grackles have flown overhead. Next is the Scarlet Tanager, another species that loves the woods on Sapsucker and is back in large numbers; their song is a somewhat impoverished version of a robin’s.
Garbage Out
Though new birds join in continuously, the loudest movement is over by 6:10; my brain will echo much of the morning, though. The smell from the woods, dominated by a flower I can’t identify, is nearly overpowering, quite therapeutic. No train has gone by, and it’s almost possible to forget where I am.
By a quarter past, the dawn is fading, and 49 species are on the list. By 6:30, it has slowed down considerably, and it’s time to rush to the pond and the Yellow Warbler swamp. American Redstarts are flitting all about, and 18 migrant Blue Jays are already on the wing. Then my luck runs out: the west-bound garbage train arrives, killing the tropical vibe. Foul beast, it leaves pockets of stench for minutes after it is gone.
Back on the balcony, the Chimney Swifts are courting, gliding about in pairs, slowly (for swifts), rocking their almost-touching wings. And finally, a good look at a Ruby-throated Hummingbird exiting the feeders and heading toward the creek.
In under two hours, 61 species, and we’re still not at the height of it!
Another great read. The dawn chorus is still a little quiet up here in my part of Nova Scotia (Annapolis Valley), but should pick up very soon.