Hard frost on a quiet Sunday. The tiny dawn chorus happens right after 6:30 AM: Winter Wren, Carolina Wren, Northern Cardinal. A White-breasted Nuthatch is yank-ing at 6:44, and continues for six minutes. Later, some 140 Red-winged Blackbirds, larger males and smaller females, flock toward the east.
The sunrise, through the interstate lattice, is brilliant, and it seems to attract European Starling and House Sparrow activity in the tall poplar along Bald Eagle Creek at my 10:30, another sign of winter. To my right, a familiar cackle issues from a sycamore along the Little Juniata River. A male Common Grackle has alighted in a top branch; quite the surprise, as I’ve seen a total of one of his species since the end of August. It’s hard to know if he’s the vanguard of late fall arrivals, or a straggler from some Icterid horde in the valleys to the east. After a few minutes, he flies away north over town.
Maroon Sunrises
Tuesday’s dawn is warm again, and breezy, and the heavy clouds are already tinged with color underneath at 6:24 AM. A band of clear sky is visible beyond the Gap.
At 6:30, under a leaden sky, a Mallard rises up and off from the river, and then the dawn chorus begins: White-throated Sparrow, Song Sparrow, Winter Wren, cardinal. It lasts about 15 minutes.
House Sparrows start up in the hedge at 6:48, only a few but sounding like a mob. Heading steadily southwest on the wind, along the raptor flight path, an eagle. As it approaches, I can make out the white head—a local, perhaps, but moving like a migrant, never varying from the straight and narrow.
At 6:52, the second brief period of color commences. It lasts just four minutes, enough for American Goldfinches to twitter out, then the first American Crows to fling themselves out from hiding behind Laurel Ridge.
Wind Clouds
As the hour approaches, the breeze picks up, a steady movement from the northwest, maybe good for migrants. A single crow pushes steadily from the west, overhead, toward the action at Brush, then another, then a tight group of five. All of a sudden, the air is filled with song as a House Finch carols from a confluence treetop. Rock Pigeons waft over Bald Eagle Mountain, and then starlings arrive from all directions, making it seem like the day is finally getting started. At 7:04, my favorite nuthatch shows up.
The third color phase begins at 7:07. Oddly enough, no raven or robin has registered its presence yet. After the 7 PM rush, things die down considerably by 7:10, but the northwest winds and heavy clouds continue to promise excitement. At 7:19, the anticipation of something new and different materializes in a single Ring-billed Gull poking its way south—I wonder if single gulls, appearing now and again at this time of day throughout the year, have spent the night at the only local sizeable water bodies, the reservoirs west of town. Like Saturday’s bonie and Sunday’s grackle, today’s single appears to be a straggler; there’s an element of sadness about a lone wanderer this time of year.
As the gull passes over, an American Robin starts up, and soon, small House Finch flocks are bounding this way and that across the sky, switching direction. At the half hour, a Northern Flicker calls from somewhere.
Finally, at 7:47 AM, the local Common Raven pair shows up, escorting a Red-tailed Hawk south along the flight path. In the brilliant, 8 AM sunlight, many House Sparrows are crowding into the starling poplar and flying about town, and a Downy Woodpecker calls. A Cooper’s Hawk circles the towers, and some time later, another Bald Eagle shows up around the towers, describing spirals with the pair of ravens.
I work outside until close to 9, but nothing else of note appears.
Frozen
Wednesday affords time to check out the pond. It’s crystal clear, and at the bridge the temperature is in the low twenties.
Dead silence at 6:30 AM, and then the notes of a Winter Wren from the cliffs along Laurel Ridge, not far above the tracks. Dark-eyed Junco twitter issues from the bushes, as a second Winter Wren starts up to my left, along the river. A crow flies across the Gap, silently, against a background of wispy clouds. From the east, a bright light moves slowly at me—the worst news, a westbound train slowing down to stop before the Plummer’s Hollow crossing, waiting for eastbounds. It’s solid tankers, shiny new with just a touch of graffiti. One of a necklace of sacrifices arrayed along the rail and interstate lays freshly killed, a button buck with lolling tongue.
At least the train has killed its engines and I can hear the chorus. White-throats whisper in the Redstart Swamp, and over at the pond a third Winter Wren sings. I can see just enough of the water to realize it’s frozen, a point driven home by an American Black Duck circling high, then heading off somewhere to open water. I push through stick-tights down to the river; at least the swarming ticks are hiding from the frost. Nothing.
Walking back, I spot a tiny ball exploring the undercarriage of the tanker cars: the Winter Wren from the cliffs, bouncing about. Finally, as a second eastbound approaches from Tyrone, the silent tanker train starts up and moves off to the west. For a few minutes, the tracks are clear, but other than two pairs of Mallards flying over from the south, the air is silent, no finches, robins, or even woodpeckers about, even though it’s well past seven.
Back in town, the air and trees are filled with birds. This is the switch that takes place when feeders go up and the woods flush out their sheltering leaves.