Work on the new first responders’ monument starts up early on Tuesday, so I opt for an exploration of terra nullius and the rest of the habitat around Plummer’s Hollow Crossing instead of suffering through a noisy balcony sit. My employer is understanding; I’ve explained to them the importance of the build-up to fall migration and how I have to have my priorities straight. One the joys of online work is variable and flexible start times.
The Little Juniata River in all its muddy glory looks like something out of Alabama or Honduras. Moving on.
I reach the crossing at 6:25 AM under a threatening sky. More bats than I can remember, a couple dozen in all, are converging on the lower Hollow. I would imagine they comprise Big Brown Bats and/or other large species (Hoary? Red?), and Little Brown Bats and/ or something similar. All I can make out from this distance is two size classes.
It’s been a while, so I think I’ll check out the pond before the warblers wake up. As I suspected, it’s pretty much an avian dead zone. Walking back, the main action is in the narrow strip of woods between the tracks and the river. Several small groups of quite sodden Chipping Sparrows are here, on the ground and in the trees—molt-migrants, I would say, judging by their plumage and the fact that the species doesn’t nest anywhere close by.
There is a scattering of the common species. Still no new migrants, but then, the weather has been anything but cooperative if you’re a long-distance voyager from the north. As always, Rose-breasted Grosbeaks and not-so-Scarlet Tanagers are converging on the black cherries. Back on the other side of the crossing, some 14 American Crows have gathered silently on a couple dead trees on the Plummer’s Hollow side of the tracks. I can’t make out what they’re up to as they’re not noisy, but I’m not vain enough to think that they’re interested in me. I play a little vireo, and, as usual, Mourning Doves come spiraling down out of nowhere to perch close and check me out.
Before departing, I slog into terra nullius. Now that the entrance is closed off, few go back there, and beyond the section where folks of ill repute ply their trades, it’s grown up so much that I get a good soaking from the weeds. This is nice to see, since terra nullius is about the become terra avium, and the fewer valagardos are in here (present company excepted), the better.
At first, it’s dead silent, but with a little coaxing, out they come. As always, Red-eyed Vireos are in the lead, followed by a Warbling Vireo and a couple Black-and-white Warblers. The highlight is not one, but two Canada Warblers. Terra avium is one of their favorite haunts during spring migration, summer molt-migration, and fall migration.
Wednesday is the mid-week foray to First Field neck. It’s 63 and mostly cloudy, with the lightest of misty rain falling. Mosquitos swarm to the tune of a raspy mammalian squeaking from the woods below. Before six, a few of the tenacious dawn singers go off, but they soon fade as the warblers begin to awaken.
Eastern Towhees are outdoing themselves. In addition to the standards reeps and drink-your-teas, they are also emitting clear, bell-like tones as well as a variety of buzzes. Nearby, one that I take to be a juvenile is practicing an off-pitch and blurry reep, scratchy and poorly-executed.
A Yellow Warbler is the first of its family to make a noise, right around 6. But it is quickly drowned out by the loud and rapid chips of an Ovenbird among the black locusts a few feet away. I never see the bird; in these low light conditions, I can only make out dark shapes zipping about, moving from their roosts, where I am convinced they are silent, to spots where they can preen, make some noise, and otherwise get ready for the first feed. I’m not really sure how it all works, but I do suspect that they fly before vocalizing so as not to provide clues to the locations of their night roosts.
As the Ovenbird moves off, a screeching and chittering can be heard in the woods above me, beyond the tangles. Eastern Screech-Owl. Juvenile? This doesn’t dampen the activity, however, as a sizeable numbers of birds are now calling from all sides; I get the definite impression that there are more here today than there were on Sunday. At the lead is a nearby Hooded Warbler, singing its heart out. Even a Swamp Sparrow goes off; this is a new visitor for the season.
The first flush of activity dies down by 6:15 and the blur of dark shapes has ceased. With the increase in light, the next act begins.
Counterpoints
A katydid starts up in tandem with a Red-bellied Woodpecker at 6:19, and the two calls, not dissimilar, interweave. Two more redbellies respond from across the field.
Sunrise comes through misty rain from a mostly clear sky. At 6:32, the first rays light up the grape tangles overwhelming the snags, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds buzz about, and the frugivores start moving in small flocks from cherry to cherry.
Squeaks, ticks, clicks, chips, and a few snatches of song announce the presence of Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, while Scarlet Tanagers only vocalize now with loud alarm chips. Groups of six or seven Cedar Waxwings fly back and forth; they’re the most abundant species already, and today’s total numbers reach 87.
Swallows and Chimney Swifts show up over the field, hunting the bug clouds some 20 yards above me. The swallows are mostly Barns, but I do spot a single Cliff Swallow among the migrants.
Close to seven, part of the reservoir Canada Goose flock streams over the Hollow, heading to Sinking Valley grain fields.
Speaking of the Hollow, the drive back down, at right around 8 AM, is in utter silence. When I stop to listen, the only bird noise I can hear is Red-eyed Vireos singing in the distance, up in the tangles on Sapsucker Ridge where all the food is. If I didn’t know any better, I would think that Wood Thrushes and Acadian Flycatchers, or Blackburnian Warblers, for that matter, had left the hotspot. They’re still here, all right, but like virtually everything else, they’ve moved upslope to where all the food is. And they’re still singing: I even heard a Wood Thrush sing up by the powerline earlier. On Sunday, I heard an Acadian Flycatcher give its “pizza” vocalization.
Warbler song now is highly dependent on the species. Ovenbirds, Blackburnian Warblers, Black-throated Green Warblers, Canada Warblers, and Yellow Warblers are only calling, not singing, at least in the hotpost. Worm-eating Warblers, American Redstarts, Cerulean Warblers, Chestnut-sided Warblers, and Magnolia Warblers both sing and call. Meanwhile, Black-and-white Warblers, Common Yellowthroats, and above all, Hooded Warblers sing almost as much as they did during breeding season.
The most basic takeaway from this (and we could talk about a lot of other local species as well in this regard) is that birdsong has far more functions than just those related to the breeding phase. Just ask the Carolina Wren: to put it impolitely, it never shuts up!
Still, it’s hard to escape a sense of loss when the Hollow goes quiet. I suppose that it’s hardwired into us—a sense of joy and excitement when birds are singing; fear, sadness, and even dread when they’re not.