The balcony and the woods are two very different worlds these days. While the woods along the tracks and up on the ridges are bursting with avifauna, only the slightest hints of this reach the edge of town.
The weather is caught in a rut. Rainy, subtropical. The bugs get worse with every downpour. That’s one advantage of the balcony, anyway: no bugs.
Monday morning at 6 is mostly gray and 62, and the dawn chorus, if you can call it that, consists of a single, insistent Carolina Wren. There’s the sodden meow of a Gray Catbird, and then some loud chips along the swollen river from a hidden bird that seems to be heading downstream. To my great surprise, the chips give way to most of the song of a Louisiana Waterthrush, one of the last ones to go through, I would think.
At 6:22 AM, a species seldom seen in August makes an appearance. Four Mallards speed over Sapsucker Ridge, heading southwest. I certainly can’t make the argument that we have “trash ducks” here in Tyrone, the kinds that beg from your or chase you. The ones who bred around town have gotten quite scarce, and I barely see them anymore. In a few months, they or others will start showing up at the pond, but for now, I have no idea where they hang out.
At long last, the American Robins have thrown in the towel. Not only have they ceded pride of place as the morning’s first songster to Carolina Wrens, but the most I hear these days is a faint and hesitant song once or twice. Today, it comes at 6:24. The robins are roosting around here in quite small numbers now; few leave for the hills in the morning and few return in the evening. Where they go is no secret: the same wild cherry feast that’s attracting inordinately high numbers of other frugivores.
For the first time I can remember, a Black Vulture appears at dawn, coasting north down Sapsucker Ridge, then bearing right to head out through the Gap. This is the type of anomalous event that keeps me going out to the balcony even when there is almost no activity close at hand. You never know what’s going to pop up, or when. A few minutes later, a Bald Eagle follows; that’s a species I never get tired of seeing.
The Canada Geese are up to 152 today, in three separate flocks, all coming from the reservoir, I believe. Later, I learn that they are spending their days in the grain stubble in Sinking Valley after someone posts a photo to a local valley Facebook page.
At 6:53, a lone male Common Grackle perches atop the poplar at my 11, calling, lord of all he surveys. I wonder what kept this fellow here when all the rest of his species are off in the fields or woods somewhere?
One minute after the hour, my head nearly sustains a collision with an errant House Sparrow. The little hair I have left is ruffled as one individual, chasing another, rushes through it somehow.
Another anomaly today is a Belted Kingfisher that rattles on and on, starting around 7:12. Perhaps it is alarmed by something. It’s somewhere below the confluence, but never flies up for me to see. Maybe related to this, several Carolina Wrens start up a racket in the same area.
A single Fish Crow, either molting or fresh out of a tussle, flaps over silently at 7:19, and the traditional last entry in the checklist, the Downy Woodpecker, gets me up out of the chair and off toward work at 7:24. Nine minutes after it started, the kingfisher is still rattling non-stop.
Pepe and the Hummer
The newest member of our family is a shelter kitty, an indoor feline of around three months of age who occasionally gets to sit, leashed and harnessed, on the balcony. On Tuesday evening we sit out for a bit, and Pepe’s eyes focus on a swirling, chittering mass of Chimney Swifts far overhead. I am not sure I was aware that cat eyesight is that acute, but it makes sense.
Up to three Ruby-throated Hummingbirds are visiting the feeder a few feet away from us, and these strange beasts immediately capture Pepe’s attention. As are all young cats, he is fascinated by anything that moves, from the tiniest gnats on up. But what happens next is a surprise to both of us.
One of the hummers, circled in yellow above, comes close, staying just on the other side of the chain-link fence. I assumed it would check us out and leave, but it turns out that cats aren’t the only curious ones. This particular little one buzzes for several minutes, hovering and shifting position by a few feet every now and again, making soft chipping noises. It is quite clearly focused on Pepe, not on me. The local hummers are well accustomed to me and have stopped buzzing me curiously. I was never much of an object of interest for them anyway, though I can’t shake the feeling that they harass me more when they want me to fill up their giant red flowers.
Pepe watches the hummer but never moves as it dances back and forth. I can’t honestly say I’ve ever seen an encounter like this before. Usually spooked by my hand movements, this one doesn’t even flee when I raise my phone to snap some photos. Finally, when I try to reach my camera, it zooms off.
And so here we sit, the world’s two most dangerous species (if you’re a bird). I won’t give Pepe the benefit of the doubt as I know what’s in his DNA, but it is fascinating, nonetheless, to witness genuine interspecies interaction like this and realize you’re just a bystander.