Last night, to usher in June, a trickle of Swainson’s Thrushes called overhead through the wee hours—singles and a few small flocks—a reminder that the northward migration is still underway. During the day, they’ll rest in thick forests, sometimes singing; the latest I have seen one here was on June 5 a few years back. We’ll see how late the night flight goes this year—this is the first time I have ever recorded in June.
The rest of last night was given over to some mystery shorebirds (an ID project for later this month when I have finished snipping May), a handful of late warbler calls, something that sounded like a Dickcissel, a few other thrush species, and an errant Chipping Sparrow. One wonders about the Chipping Sparrow—migration is long over for this species, I thought, so is this a local bird? If not, perhaps it’s one still searching for a territory or a mate.
A few of the local birds call and sing at night as well. In addition to a particularly vociferous Whip-Poor-Will, Field Sparrows and Ovenbirds sing at regular intervals from dusk to dawn, and at one point not long after midnight, an Eastern Towhee wakes and reeps for awhile. At great intervals, a local Chipping Sparrow trills—perhaps it, like the Field Sparrow, is out searching for extraterritorial liaisons.
But the bird that most defines the night now is the Eastern Wood-Pewee. During a few weeks in May and June, a local pewee, or several, emit their mournful song—not constantly, but every ten or fifteen minutes at least.
Meanwhile, the crickets increase slowly in volume as the spring peepers fade.
Land of Ill Repute
By dusk, the temperature has dropped from the upper eighties to the seventies. There is little humidity so it’s not oppressive, but tell that to the gnats. To even be able to sit at the Plummer’s Hollow Crossing, at the intersection of cool air draining from the woods and cooling railroad gravels, I have to liberally apply Deet, and even then, the most vicious of the bugs still find a way to bite. In the darkening air, untold numbers of mayflies and others are floating and mating, though without a bat to snatch them.
Around 7:30, the peaceful chorus is Scarlet Tanagers, Wood Thrushes, American Robins, and Red-eyed Vireos, with the occasional Indigo Bunting. A Black-and-white Warbler sings from the shrub layer behind me, while overly loud Louisiana Waterthrushes call and sing as they dart back and forth across the tracks; the local couple’s territory, following the lowest stream, apparently straddles the railroad.
Blue Jays start to arrive in a tree I can’t identify across the tracks, flying off with prizes to eat, perhaps caterpillars, and returning. Otherwise, most birds stay well out of sight, and the skies are nearly empty. An occasional Turkey Vulture coasts to roost out by the valley, but only a handful of Chimney Swifts, European Starlings, and Common Grackles come through the Gap in almost two hours.
An Indigo Bunting picks up steam around eight. For some reason it occurs to me that its monotonous song would not be out of place at a monastery.
Even an occasional train doesn’t shatter the tranquility, and the wall of greenery now keeps out all the sights and some of the sounds of the busy highway. Then, an unusual sight: a pickup truck lumbers slowly toward me along the river side of the tracks, from Tyrone—quite a tricky maneuver. The driver stops, disappears briefly into terra nullius, and returns to his vehicle with a small package, glancing about. Later, he sees me as he pulls up to the crossing, and revs down toward the river out of sight.
A few minutes later, a button buck, half-starved, gentle creature, emerges from terra nullius around the memorial site, and walks nimbly over the hard rip-rap and tracks. He never sees me, though we’re no more than two hundred feet apart; ribs showing, he slips into our privet jungle and disappears.
As nine nears and Gray Catbirds are having their final hurrah, I walk down to the bridge, skirting small piles of trash people are too ignorant and lazy to take with them; wouldn’t want to have a messy car! An odd sight greets me: someone has dumped a pink shopping cart in the deepest water and there it sits, spoiling the upstream view. Perhaps it floated down during high water, but I doubt it.
As I go back to get the car, just after nine, one last robin sings, and a Wood Thrush clucks a few more times.
An Unexpected Visitor
Back in town, windows down, I’m turning from the highway onto Pennsylvania Avenue when I hear that old familiar sound: Common Nighthawk! Its unmistakable nasal peent sounds from somewhere above Sheetz’s, and I can still hear it faintly as I reach the apartment. Though this could be a late migrant, I love to think we might have nesters here, and I know just where to look and listen tomorrow.
At 9:08, someone sets off those annoying firecracker bursts over by the VFW, and the robins scatter in alarm. By 9:15, all is silent, even the robins.