The First Waxwing of January
At some ungodly hour, I glance at the radar: the dread of freezing rain, unexpectedly.
Slow Short Dawn
TR the tannery raven doesn’t start its racket until 7:19 AM, and never appears despite 20 minutes of cries, honking, croaking, the whole repertoire. It’s in the mid-to-upper thirties and the rain has changed to gentle and ice-free, but it’s still a stretch to think much will be about.
Before 7:30: A single Mallard over. Black-capped Chickadees start up a racket.
White-breasted Nuthatch zooms by at 7:37 AM, and then the fun begins.
Breakfast Buffet
These starlings and robins aren’t going anywhere, I guess until they strip clean all the fruits on all the avenues. This morning, the action is to my 3 and right, out of sight, in the trees on Pennsylvania Avenue around the bridge, I think.
There are presumably hundreds of starlings, but I can’t get a fix on American Robin numbers and I don’t have much time. Forty have arrived at least. In between bites they’re flying up to the willows and sycamores, and the Downy Woodpecker, awake by 7:39, is as loud as I’ve seen it, working the closest trees to me, flying back and forth between creek and river.
Around 7:50, a commotion and everything scatters and hushes. A pair of Cooper’s Hawks, working the starling-robin flock together, it looks like, have hit my 3 o’clock sycamore in plain sight. One keeps going out of sight toward Pennsylvania Avenue, and the other perches for a few minutes, peering around, tail wagging slightly. As usual, when I look up after typing a note, it’s gone, too.
Right after the second Cooper’s disappears, a few robins and starlings flush back to trees by the interstate. The feed goes on into what looks like it will be an active and late morning, but I’m off to my 8 o’clock.
The First Waxwing of January: Number 55
During breaks in the work flow, I head to the balcony to scan. All day, the starlings and robins drape the trees, hundreds of the former and dozens of the latter. I don’t suppose this spectacle will last much longer, but I’m hoping the commotion might draw whatever blackbirds, cowbirds, and grackles are in the area as well. I’m not sure how big these are on street food, but one never knows.
In amongst the throng I spot a single Cedar Waxwing, expertly gorging on 10th Street fruit. I had given up hope on this species for the winter, but it’s officially Plummer’s Hollow 200#55. Waxwings roosted all around town, particularly along the creek and river, in late summer and early fall, heading to the hills at dawn to start stripping the black cherries. In September, I watched flock after flocks, hundreds or more, back and forth over the mountains. After that, they moved to the wild grapes, and I last saw a small group feasting on American Bittersweet along First Field in late December, long after the last roosting individuals had left town.
Pond
Work drags out late, so there’s barely time to check on waterfowl. A couple of Canada Geese go over silently, heading toward Sinking Valley, but they’re not on the pond by the time I arrive. Again with the ice. Not much open water is left, and as always, at the far end. Knowing I’ll spook the Mallard crowd I get closer anyway just in case something new is mixed in, and the American Wigeon is the first to go. I think it’s the one that always makes a soft peep, but that’s quickly drowned out by the quacking of a mad rush of big ducks. No woodie today.