On Sunday it’s 55. No sooner do I sit down on the balcony than a young Ruby-throated Hummingbird flies up to perch on the porch-edge chain link fence two feet from me. It regards me for several moments as I stare back, frozen. As soon as I twitch a muscle, off it goes.
The porch is now hung with the two ant-proof feeders, so it’s a constant hub of hummer activity, even before it’s fully late. As for the House Finches, they have faded off into the general population.
Rock Pigeons stream off east into the sunrise in pairs and small groups. As always, those flying from the junkyard buildings to my right tend to fly into downtown first to join the throng, then commute with the rest. At one point a flock of twenty swirls up, flanked by a single pigeon some 50 feet away. This often happens with the larger groups; I suspect that the outlier is some sort of sentinel.
The Barn Swallow has gotten sociable today. A second is around, and they are chattering together about something. Later, three perch together on the wire. From the confluence, woods, strange American Robin calls issue, suggesting that juveniles are starting to work on their repertoires.
At 6:26, a Hooded Warbler, of all things, chips right over my head and straight into the upstairs porch of an abandoned apartment next door. It rushes around in disarray for a few microseconds before exiting the wooden maze and disappearing into the sycamore foliage along the river.
Activity increases sharply at the half-hour. Through the Sunday calm I hear a Pileated Woodpecker, Warbling Vireo (still here!), Eastern Phoebe, and Indigo Bunting vocalizing at the same time. A few minutes later, a flock of 17 Common Grackles flies over, heading southeast toward the valley and trailing a trio comprised of two Red-winged Blackbirds and a Brown-headed Cowbird.
It’s an active day for warblers, as well. Yellow Warblers are still migrating in force, and though the Louisiana Waterthrush doesn’t make an appearance, I hear a Canada Warbler at the confluence somewhere as well as a Blackburnian Warbler and an American Redstart.
Redstarts are definitely migrating. On Thursday and Friday nights, an unusually large number of nocturnal flight calls (hundreds) included numerous Redstarts, along with dozens of Wood Thrushes and Rose-breasted Grosbeaks and a scattering of Canada Warblers, a Northern Waterthrush, Chipping Sparrows (which never stopped moving), and many others. More Short-billed Dowitchers went over, along with Least and Spotted sandpipers, and even a Least Bittern moved through at one point.
This morning, the list reaches 36 as the sun hits the balcony at 7:17 AM. From here, it’s a steady climb into the upper eighties, but at least for today, it’s a dry heat.
Monday: Revenge of the Gnats
Cold again today (58), and also clear but for a pile of thunderheads poking over the top of Bald Eagle Mountain in the east.
Speaking of Bald Eagles, a 20-day draught of this species, the longest of 2023, is finally broken at 6:17 when a juveniles flies in from the north along the line of Bald Eagle Creek, then steers its bulk downriver and out of sight. A couple minutes later, four young Mallards come from the same direction, but opt to fly upriver. It’s been eight days since I’ve seen this species.
At 6:24 AM, a male House Finch chases a Barn Swallow about through the skies, occasionally pecking at it. This goes on for close to a minute, the finch able to pursue the more graceful swallow with some agility. I don’t understand the point of hostility between these two species: what did the swallow possibly do that angered the finch?
At twenty minutes until seven, an adult Bald Eagle cruises upriver and right past my apartment building.
The mercury climbs into the upper eighties, but the air is still dry. Around 6:30 PM, I head up to grab NFCs. The Hollow, as always, is blessedly cool, and an Acadian Flycatcher and Wood Thrush are still singing. A pair of Mourning Doves are surprised at their drinking place and flutter to the limbs of a large hemlock above the stream. Farther up the road, deer and American Crows scatter in disarray, followed by a stampede of ‘mountain’ rabbits once I reach the fields.
As I step out of the car, I am assaulted by a gnat crowd. The constant July rain has brought them out in numbers beyond what any of us can remember. A broad-brimmed hat does no good, and after about a minute, they find me even inside the garage.
Down the Hollow again, much later, a Wood Thrush is still singing in the semi-darkness of the deepest part at just three minutes shy of nine. The fireflies were out in force up top, and though there are less in the Hollow, two have managed to land on my windshield and get smooshed, streaks of phosphorescence glowing and dying.
Return to Roost
On Tuesday, the spell is broken. Before six, I head to the Plummer’s Hollow Crossing to see what is about. It’s mostly cloudy with the faintest hint of sunrise, and the temperature is in the low sixties. A Bald Eagle is out early, heading toward the river from somewhere to the south.
A Carolina Wren ‘teakettles’ in fits and starts, as if it’s practicing, interspersed with alarm notes and trills from two more nearby. The other night, the NFC microphone picked up one calling from the veranda at 12:20 AM, which I had to seek expert advice about on the off chance it was a Long-billed Dowitcher (their call notes are nearly identical).
At 6:07, the Louisiana Waterthrush sings down by the river. I saw last night that the first ones have already shown up back home in Central America.
A garbage train rushes by at 6:08 but, thank goodness, it’s empty. Unfortunately, the western sky is getting darker and darker. The Common Ravens know something’s up: one drifts over the Gap from the south, then three more, then a pair, then two more singles, all heading northeast over Bald Eagle Mountain. They never make a sound.
Other birds are returning to their roosts, a sure sign of an impending storm. Robins spiral down out of the sky and one by one, the songsters go quiet, leaving only the indefatigable Indigo Buntings. I hear a doglike bark from down by the river that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere, so I head back to where I parked the car by the bridge. A juvenile Great Blue Heron takes off from above the bridge up into a tree somewhere.
I walk into terra nullius and a Louisiana Waterthrush immediately start calling, but otherwise, it’s dead calm as the first drops fall.
Back in town, I’m barely inside before the heavens open up. We even get some nice, close lightning strikes to keep us humble.