Real Spring
Today, something different is in the air. If yesterday channeled February, today is brushing up against April. It’s a relatively balmy 35 degrees and calm, with just a touch of humidity.
The robins know it; unlike earlier in the week, today they are out in force early. They’re calling already by 6:48 AM when I hit the balcony. The first wave of the dawn chorus continues with the Song Sparrow, Northern Cardinal, and Carolina Wren, all before seven; starlings and a Mallard are also already about.
A pair of Common Mergansers, male and female, zoom upriver at 7:06, on a flight path that varies little from day to day. They hug Sapsucker Ridge about 3/4 of the way up, above the river and tracks, avoiding flying over town. I suppose it’s the most efficient way to get through the Gap if you’re heading upriver, and it’s substantially the same route followed by many a Bald Eagle, Canada Goose, and Common Raven as well.
Around the same time, two Mourning Doves tumble eastward into the Gap. More and more of this species are in the air these days.
Neither hide nor hair of the Common Raven this early.
At 7:10, a House Finch can be heard. Six more Common Mergansers, males, and a pair of Canada Geese leave the Gap along the Sapsucker flight path. By now, it’s quiet again except for the robins.
The Eastern Phoebe begins a full day of calling at 7:14 AM. Later in the day, it makes its territorial ambitions known by flitting from post to limb, limb to post, calling lustily at each stop, up and down the lowest part of Bald Eagle Creek and nearby areas along the river.
The junkyard raven finally appears at 7:15, flying around behind I-99, never having made a sound.
Activity Builds
The chorus swells without pause: we seem to be having a real Spring morning. By half past seven, the sky is crisscrossed by Common Grackles, American Crows, American Robins, and others, heading from valley to valley, valley to mountains, or back and forth around town and up and down the streams.
Four grackles, in particular, are circling above my building, then landing in the nearer tall trees, displaying, calling; one passes directly over my head with a large something in its beak: food, or nesting material?
Not long after 7:30, the second and third Bald Eagles of the day, an adult and a juvenile, float down Bald Eagle Mountain from the northeast. They’re physically close, touching wings and doing some half-tumbling together. In front of me, three small crows flap by right in town. I suspect they’re Fish Crows, but I need them to vocalize to be sure. Later, I hear one out my office window. When I can match calls to individuals, I’ll see if I can detect some markings or distinctive plumage to separate them from the American Crows when neither species is vocalizing.
Around 7:50, as a starling does its best Killdeer from the nearest sycamore top, I spot a weakly fluttering, plump bird high above, not right for a starling or robin. It’s the first Eastern Meadowlark (PH200#74) of the year! This species is a red-lister for the hotspot, even though it is common out in Sinking Valley; my only chance at getting it is high overhead during migration, or perhaps if it pops in for a brief song and survey of First Field. We’ve never had it nesting in the hotspot, though, and there are no Fall records whatsoever, nor does it show up on the nocturnal spectrum.
Work starts at eight but it’s warm enough to move my office outside for a bit to catch the end of my first Spring dawn. A Song Sparrow, a Carolina Wren, Common Grackles, Northern Cardinal, European Starlings, and House Finches are all still singing, and more Mourning Doves are flying about. At 8:15, a crowd of some 80 Rock Pigeons emerge from downtown, but after some circling they head back out of sight, eschewing a trip over the mountain this early. The first Turkey Vulture heads east at 8:15, wrapping up the count with 25 species.
Valagardos
An afternoon trip to the pond is fruitless. From a distance, I spot two kids hefting rocks from its upper edge and tossing them toward the tracks. Doubtless, the waterfowl have already spooked. A bit later, engaged in conversation with my daughter, who turns 27 today, my call is interrupted by one of the teens:
Whatcha’ doin’, mister?
I tell him this is where I usually walk and that my family owns all the land above us. I admonish him to steer clear of the tracks; a few minutes earlier, he and his friend had been walking down the rails not far in front of an oncoming Norfolk Southern train, jumping out of the way at the last minute. Never a good idea.
Back at Plummer’s Hollow crossing, a kettle of Turkey Vultures is joined by a Red-tailed Hawk, the first I’ve seen this month. I suppose it’s one of the locals.
Cache
After dinner, a productive balcony sit yields 20 species. I’m interested in seeing just how late things will go, on what is still a balmy day (rain predicted tomorrow, then cold on the weekend). A few surprises are in order.
I finally confirm what I’ve suspected: the reason the White-breasted Nuthatches like the nearest power poles is that these are on a caching route. I happen to spot one just as it lands on a pole and ratchets down to a metal clasp, then pokes its bill between the clasp and the wood, extracting some large seed or nut. With that in its bill, it flies off. There’s one way to make it through the winter!
Robin Equinox
By 7:15, I note that only the American Robins are left, still perched, calling that sharp sound often followed by a stutter. They are all about, marking territory, but their chorus is fading fast, or so it seems. However, there’s one last gasp of dusk: more Canada Geese, the first local Eastern Towhee of the year, a Mallard down to the creek at 7:29, a solitary Song Sparrow singing its last at 7:34 PM, and the last two Mourning Doves at 7:35 and 7:37.
That last dove seems to have been the signal for the robins to what, go to sleep? Never! Instead, the half-dozen locals pick up the pace, calling loudly back and forth, and then finally starting to sing at 7:45, two minutes prior to last light and the end of dusk. On they go, so I duck in to load the dishwasher, trying to figure out just when they’ll stop.
By 7:55 PM, all is silent. Robins have been active more than 12 hours straight, providing another hint at the reason there are hundreds of millions of them on this continent.
(I’m writing this at 5:55 AM on Friday, just as a local robin starts up abruptly).