On the last day of July, at 5:22 AM and 59 degrees, nothing stirs, not even a robin. Just stars, the moons of Jupiter, the rings of Saturn. 59.
At 5:32 the American Robins start up, but they don’t get into the swing of it for another ten minutes. A Mallard plummets to the confluence at 5:41, a Song Sparrow sings once, a Gray Catbird creaks faintly at 5:47, and that’s the early dawn chorus.
A Great Blue Heron flies past maybe a dozen yards from me, barely clearing the roof. In the background, the incessant whistles and twitters of Cedar Waxwings and American Goldfinches issue from across the river. A couple Yellow Warblers chip at the hour, and the robins start flying out to feed.
The first adult Bald Eagle comes up out of the Gap at 6:04, flying in a leisurely fashion northward, between creek and mountain. A second adult follows a minute later. Twelve robins lift up from the trees and head toward Brush Mountain. Rock Pigeons flocks swirl up next, always over Bald Eagle Mountain to points unknown.
The activity continues through the six o’clock hour, but most of the singing has stopped. It takes a bit to adjust to the fact that the reasons for singing aren’t so urgent anymore.
In the eaves of #2 garage, three robin nestlings wait patiently. For such a noisy species, the nestlings are generally pretty quiet.
August Eve
The day is summer as it’s meant to be: highs in the upper seventies, deep blue skies, cumulus. Evening on the balcony brings a series of revelations; August can’t wait to get started.
Though there’s no constant singing going on nearby, the background noise of waxwing and goldfinch nestlings and parents is a bit deafening. Around 7:30, the first revelation: a cloud of some 400 European Starlings heading north, strung out above Brush Mountain but originating somewhere in Sinking Valley, I would guess. How many families, how many broods, have grouped together? Not a murmuration yet, perhaps, but still the biggest flock I’ve seen since the depths of winter. They disappear north of town somewhere.
I watch the cloud pass through the airspace of two Red-tailed Hawks, the same juvenile-looking individuals who went overhead from somewhere down Brush Mountain a few minute ago. Now they’re hovering over I-99 beyond Northwood.
For reasons unknown to me, a robin that I believe is one of the parents of #2 brood has tucked its foot into its breast, and a few feathers are poking out as well. Is this a normal posture, or an indication of some wound?
A male House Finch, perhaps Fernando, catches the sun and sings for a bit, while others scramble about and beg in the bushes over by the creek, behind him.
Right around eight, loud chips rush past my ear as a couple of tiny birds chase each other from river to creek. Quite a revelation: it’s not every day I see an American Redstart on a utility wire!
A couple minutes later, a Hooded Warbler chips from somewhere to my right. Soon, though, it’s so quiet (except for dozens of chittering Chimney Swifts), that I feel like crashing. As I start to stow my set-up, that old familiar sound issues from the Gap. Revelation # 3: no matter how often I hear the honking of Canada Geese, I can’t stop feeling wistful, as if I’m missing out on something, some wilderness somewhere. Two groups of seven to eight individuals, two families with all the kids, I would guess, fly low along Bald Eagle Mountain, and I can hear them for awhile to the north; I suppose they are settling down in some wetland up there. Right on schedule.
Every once in awhile, a Song Sparrow sings, and the local catbird makes the faintest of sounds. That’s the sum of the dusk chorus, but the real action is up in the air. Chimney Swifts are increasing by the day, with at least 40 swirling overhead at any given moment this time of day. At 8:29, a harried raptor darts and dodges in the sky: a Merlin, trying to escape from a cloud of some 60 swifts and the odd Barn Swallow. Revelation # 4: this type of thing becomes an almost daily occurrence in August and September, but it’s an odd time of year for a Merlin.
After 8:30 it’s definitely time to wrap up. The two Ruby-throated Hummingbirds that spend more time pursuing each other than feeding are making their last visits, swifts numbers are dropping gradually, and robins are leaving for their nocturnal roosts. And then the final revelation, and at least for me, the most surprising: A tight flock of waterfowl comes hurtling out of the Gap and I just assume it’s Mallards, but as they pass directly over my head, I realize they’re Common Mergansers. Some 15, adults as well as juveniles, males and females.