Squall
Seven-oh-seven and a Carolina Wren is calling from the riverbank. It’s 28 with light snow, setting out to be an unremarkably somber dawn. After a few minutes, the tannery raven croaks from its roost area, but something’s off: 25 European Starlings zoom into town, fast and low, at 7:12, well before they normally arrive.
Junco and chickadee are out at their usual time, but Rock Pigeons up by 7:23, another early riser today. A silent Cooper’s Hawk dives over my head and down toward 10th Street then up in a graceful swoop into one of the tall willows at my ten. I glance down to note it and when I look again, it’s gone. It’s nice to be directly in the flight path.
Fourteen American Robins and six starlings in a single flock straggle out toward the Gap, then think better of it, turning back in town. The dawn begins to show itself.
That HOFI Again
I’ve written down “HOFI 731” in my notes to see how close I am. At 7:30, he’s here, doing a turn over the tallest poplar at my one, then a sharp turn left and down to his favorite spot, whatever that is. For now, I’ll just call him “HOFI” (the 4-letter banding code used for bird shorthand), because as soon as he stops with this daily routine, I’ll lose him forever. Best not to get too attached to this particular House Finch.
Tufted Titmice start making noise at 7:32, and the flurrying intensifies. The Black-capped Chickadee joins, and both species, probably several individuals, start making uncharacteristically loud vocalizations.
White Out
Sheets of flakes up on Sapsucker Ridge. The snow turns to squall and the squall to white-out: rapidly deteriorating conditions over the next six minutes. The titmice go silent while a cricket-like call that can only be the Carolina Wren, muffled by snow, stays defiant. Starlings, unsurprisingly, are flying all about.
By 7:43 the squall is history and gray-pink sky shot with blue shows itself. Snowplos rattle and rasp on the interstate. It’s still snowing over on Laurel Ridge.
The wren keeps at it as the dawn restarts. For once, the local Tufted Titmice group—around five individuals, possibly last year’s family—come into plain view. They are loud, as loud as I’ve heard them this winter, and one comes as close as a bird can get to me while still in a tree. It’s got a yellow seed or fruit of some kind in its beak.
I log 14 species, the most common number these days.
The blue is gaining fast.
Feed
All blue later and the starlings feed frantically. My office is at the far end of the apartment, overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue, and the shadows of the rushing starling horde pass through the room much of the day. They’re all over the fruit trees on both sides of the street, but rarely for more than a few seconds on each tree. They come and go over the top of the block to the sycamores and willows off my balcony, along the Juniata.