The kind of downpour you get in Veracruz or Tampa dumps on Tyrone around the middle of Sunday. Rain continues in fits and starts throughout the day and night, and Monday dawns mostly clear and freshly scrubbed. This type of weather tends to move the birds around, particularly the ones that rely on watercourses, such as herons, ducks, and geese. Sodden songbirds young and old emerge onto open perches to shake and preen.
Sunday Evening Surprises
Gin and soda, balcony, 64 degrees with a slight breeze, mostly clear. The first unusual visitor, right at 7 PM, is a male American Kestrel darting over town. Without stopping, he flies from somewhere over by Bald Eagle Mountain, heads past the confluence and disappears southward. Not a noteworthy appearance elsewhere, perhaps, but he’s the first of his kind detected in the hotspot since way back on April 20th.
Next, a hidden male Northern Cardinal starts up the loudest and clearest song I’ve heard from him in months. Eighteen ringing notes—nine high, then nine low—are repeated numerous times from the brush along Bald Eagle Creek in front of me. After a few minutes, he switches to equally lucid ‘chew chew chew’ notes, and before I know it, he’s appeared up on the dead ash. He goes on for a few more minutes before diving back into the undergrowth.
A male House Finch I assume is Fernando alights on a nearby wire within a couple feet of a female, presumably Fern. He faces her, and hops agilely along the tightrope toward her, head held exaggeratedly high, singing with all his might. He shuffles right up to her and briefly rests his neck on her head, then they settle down, side by side.
Later, I spot him in the nest, feeding the nestlings, and still later, after the feeding is over, Fern flies in, watching me and everything else about warily as she perches on the hanger wire before nestling down among her brood.
Another unusual sound from the depths of the confluence somewhere on this quiet Sunday evening: the faint strains of a Yellow-throated Vireo, possibly the first time I’ve been able to hear this species song from the balcony. One pair at least nests in terra nullius, and perhaps they are beginning to move about a bit. This morning, I heard another species from down that way that showed up close by, the Rose-breasted Grosbeak. I expect a gradual increase in these types of detections in the coming weeks before they’re all overwhelmed by the southbound hordes.
More signs of high summer are the high-flying flocks of swallows. This morning, it was Northern Rough-winged Swallows, which have long since abandoned the local wires, hunting in a group over the northeast side of town. This evening, three Cliff Swallows are in the same vicinity, heading north.
Great Blue Family
A noticeable hush falls around 7:48, except for the insistent chips of a Yellow Warbler. For the first time this season, warblers too far away to identify are going over from ridge to ridge: they could be any of a dozen local species returning to roost after foraging excursions, or even molt-migrants from out of town. Close at hand, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, as always, are quarrelling. An American Redstart goes off a few minutes later, but otherwise, it’s dead. Except, of course, for chittering Chimney Swifts and twittering American Goldfinches as the eight o’clock hour gets underway.
At 8:05, three hulking Great Blue Herons drift into view from the toe of Bald Eagle Mountain and start to edge toward town, but turn around and head back out through the Gap. I glimpse white down on the nearest one as they turn; perhaps it’s two parents and a juvenile? They could be from anywhere, but I’d like to think they nest nearby.
An Eastern Phoebe and Eastern Wood-Pewee, the former close and loud, the latter faint, overlap each other at twelve past. Over the confluence, a tight group of eight European Starlings circles and circles, almost putting down but not quite; after a while they are joined by Cedar Waxwings, buzzing and circling as well.
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At 8:24 PM, the chorus starts (again), anchored by American Robins, Gray Catbirds, and that cardinal, again. As has become their custom over the past week, goldfinches are in constant movement, calling and singing as they move about above the sycamores, never flying straight but always dipping and rising, dipping and rising. Higher up, over 40 Chimney Swift are now feasting, whirling about in a sort of column that extends hundreds of yards into the atmosphere.
The wind-down happens quickly after 8:45, as American Robins swoop down from distant feeding spots in the mountains, decelerating with impressive gracefulness into the tops of trees all about. Waxwings, goldfinches, starlings, Common Grackles: the last of them rush to roost as bats large and small emerge to take their places. By 9 PM, only the catbirds, robins, and swifts, as usual, are left. Ever quieter, in smaller and smaller numbers, they fade away; a possible Common Nighthawk sounds once from too far away to identify.
An American Robin has taken up an unusually late position on a nearby wire over the parking lot, perhaps also attentive to the strains of a saxophone from up by the Greyhound bus stop. The last swifts slip down nearby chimneys by 9:07; incongruously, someone across 10th Street starts up a chainsaw. A Green Heron calls once, and by 9:09, even the robins are quiet. Fern flushes from the nest as I go inside for the night, a surprising 38 species richer.
A Fowl Monday Morning
I somehow never got out for a walk yesterday, so this morning, it’s off to the pond first thing. Among the duckweed and lily pads, three young Wood Ducks, the first I have seen or heard in many months, spot me immediately and dart into the tall, wet grass out of sight.
A few minutes later, at 6:14 AM, five silent Canada Geese soar over southward into Sinking Valley. They’re the first I’ve seen since June 19th. Last year, I saw Canadas only twice in July, once four and another time eight together, until the 31st, when 60 went over. That was the reconstituted local flock of adults and juveniles, and I saw them regularly in large numbers after that. My target for this species is July 15-21, the only week in the entire year that Canada Geese have never been detected in the hotspot.
As for Mallards, they have become nearly invisible since a few days ago when I was watching juvenile test flights. Last night, I spotted one flying high over Bald Eagle Mountain, but this morning, none are in evidence. My target time for Mallards is August 1-7, the last week of the year with no records.
Back at the apartment, as I’m taking off my boots, I notice shapes in the turbulent currents at the confluence. At long last, it’s the local juvenile Common Mergansers, all seven of them! In the evening, five of them, possibly including an adult female, burst out of the water somewhere up Bald Eagle Creek, and circle around, heading toward the confluence; they continue upriver on the Little Juniata.
The raging currents do indeed seem to have stirred up the waterfowl. We now have evidence of all four local waterfowl species successfully fledging offspring, and a bonus with the Great Blue Heron trio.
As I prepare to go back inside, the curtains of town and highway noise part long enough for me to hear the unmistakable song of a Scarlet Tanager, possibly from as far away as the slopes of Bald Eagle Mountain. Even in migration I don’t believe I’ve seen one close at hand here: like Blue-Gray Gnatcatchers and Red-bellied Woodpeckers, they seem to stay far away from my corner of town. Hearing one from my urban perch is also exceptionally unusual.