Getting a Move On
The night recordings are still blessedly free of bugs, and it is there we can most easily detect evidence of birds departing and in transit. Last Wednesday in the early AM, the first Rose-breasted Grosbeak, and then a Wood Thrush, in night flight. Twenty-four hours later, a Spotted Sandpiper, a warbler, Chipping Sparrows, another Rose-breasted Grosbeak, Indigo Buntings, a probable Grasshopper Sparrow, a Great Blue Heron, and the first Scarlet Tanager. Crisp, clear calls indicate flight paths well overhead, not through the woods or fields.
Thursday night and into Friday morning, a trickle of unidentifiable warblers shows up, the wing whistle of a duck, and another Spotted Sandpiper. Early Saturday morning, the first Chestnut-sided Warbler makes its appearance.
There are beginnings of a restlessness in diurnal activities as well, as the breeding season winds down. Not full-fledged Zugunruhe, but rather, the gradual break-up of nuclear families, and for some species, the conglomeration of larger and larger roosts and foraging flocks. I can see it in the Common Grackles, who have all but deserted Grackleville, their fledglings grown enough to move to other roosts, and are now passing overhead in morning flocks. I can see it in the Cedar Waxwings, which, while still raising young, are are also flocking directly into the green fruit-laden canopies of the black cherries in groups of six and eight. Juvenile House Finches from earlier broods are moving about in small flocks as well. Turkey Vultures now perch on the antennas every afternoon, taking off as groups into nearby thermals, then settling back to the hot metal, thirty or more at a time, mixed with a few Common Ravens and Black Vultures. The Chimney Swift swarm is growing daily.
Other species seem to stick in raucous family groups: Pileated Woodpeckers, Hooded Warblers, White-breasted Nuthatches, Red-eyed Vireos, and many others. The permanent resident species may include some juveniles that move on (eventually) to other areas; some summer residents may linger into the middle of fall, even as waves of long-distance migrants pass through, until a food source is exhausted and it’s time to head south and abandon the territory. I’ve watched resident Hooded Warblers do this, as offspring disappear to other locations to molt, and migrant warbler flocks come and go.
For now, not only are molts and other physical changes taking place but also cognitive development is proceeding at a dizzying pace. Young birds are learning whom and what to fear and whom to trust, and are beginning to try out vocalizations other than begging from adults. They are learning how and what and when and where to eat and sleep; they are learning to cooperate and how to be on their own. And they are perishing, weeded out by luck, by fate, by lack of cleverness, speed, agility.
Drink Your Tea
I step into this July world on Saturday morning during the four o’clock hour, when light-triggered American Robins are still silent. After arriving at the garage at 4:43 AM, I trudge uphill through long grass and wet daisies, a half moon and Jupiter among the fading stars, and not a sound from any bird.
At 4:56 AM, as I’m approaching the spruce, an Indigo Bunting erupts once, setting off a cascade of ‘reeps’ and ‘drink your teas’ from the Eastern Towhees. The dawn chorus begins, with Eastern Wood-Pewees in front and behind and then a Scarlet Tanager, which Merlin insists on calling a Veery. Video-game trills of a Field Sparrow and then the ‘wichity’ of a Common Yellowthroat, as a large bat cavorts above me. The spruces themselves remain silent: the swelling chorus is all from the field and the deciduous woods.
Chipping Sparrows are zooming about quite actively and then begin to trill as well; a Great-crested Flycatcher joins in, followed by a Song Sparrow, a Red-eyed Vireo, and a Yellow-throated Vireo. Finally, at 5:20 AM, the Whip-Poor-Will begins to repeats its name, continuing for a few minutes until it gets too light. As for me, it’s time for the day’s first Deet shower.
After a bit, a juvenile Rose-breasted Grosbeak flies into a nearby locust and regards me silently for a minute or so, then heads on. Blackburnian Warblers are flying about as well now, between the spruce and the locusts, but they’re not singing. An American Robin clucks from the spruces behind me, Wood Thrushes echo from various direction, and two Baltimore Orioles complain, at me or at what, I don’t know. Merlin’s still hearing a phantom Veery, but otherwise nails all the IDs. A solitary Red-bellied Woodpecker clings to a favorite snag in a group of dead trees I’m hoping to spot an Olive-sided Flycatcher in next month.
Species pile up for another 50 minutes, eventually topping 50. Unlike in town, where birds leave their roosts and head out of earshot to feed, the resources up here are abundant, so there is no noticeable lull for several hours. Most species—even, at one point, a Wild Turkey gobbler—vocalize unbidden, except for Brown Thrashers, which skulk about cryptically. No species is here that shouldn’t be here. Warbling Vireos haven’t shown up; give them a couple more weeks to abandon the Little Juniata. Red-breasted Nuthatches, an early migrant, aren’t back. Even the scarcest species—Golden-crowned Kinglets in the spruce grove, and Northern Parula on the field’s edge down below—are still about.
The Mob
A bit later, own by the powerline, I play a little Eastern Screech-Owl to coach out some of the quieter warblers. A dizzying number of Field Sparrows and Indigo Buntings lead the charge, flying close to my face, with Downy Woodpeckers, Black-and-white Warblers, Worm-eating Warblers, Hooded Warblers, American Redstarts, Black-throated Green Warblers, Scarlet Tanagers, Rose-breasted Grosbeaks, Yellow-throated Vireos, White-breasted Nuthatches, and dozens of others plastered across the locust trees and catalpa branches within yards of me. They mostly move too fast for decent photos, but a mixture of juveniles and adults is evident. They don’t appear to be forming any mixed-species feeding flocks; these are simply mobbing what they believe to be a fearsome predator. Next month, screech-owl tape will bring mixed feeding flocks of these as well as passage migrants together, including numerous warblers in confusing fall plumage, in similar configurations to what I might find later in the year in a Honduran rainforest (with different permanent resident species at both ends: here, Red-bellied Woodpeckers; there, Golden-fronted Woodpeckers; here, Black-capped Chickadees and Tufted Titmice; there, Plain Xenops and Scaly-throated Foliage-gleaners).
The peak of it will be reached at the height of the wild black cherry crop toward the end of August. Upwards of 50 species will converge on single canopy trees, though I think a fair amount, such as warblers and flycatchers, go for the abundant clouds of gnats and fruit flies. Waxwings and robins will anchor the flocks, and their numbers will build into the hundreds.
The Chorus That Wasn’t
Sunday is a balcony dawn. Despite the clear-ish sky and middling humidity, the weather reports are dire, and for the first time this year, I see lightning flickering over Bald Eagle Mountain from some distant storm.
Robins are getting up not long before five now, but they’re as pugnacious as ever, chasing each angrily across the parking lots. A hush falls over the five o’clock hour, with a sorry excuse for a dawn chorus dying down quickly. A Gray Catbird makes a rare foray into the parking lot, then flees, crackling, back to the safety of thick brush along the river. Other than dozens of swifts and constant goldfinch activity, there isn’t much excitement in the air, now that the swallow, grackle, and European Starling families have dispersed. For some reason, the town and highways are nearly void of human activity, so I am able to hear the distant cries of a Killdeer from beyond the interstate, but not much else unusual happens. Young, gray starlings perch about the wires and explore the buildings, as a nearby Mourning Dove coos, over and over. Fernando flies in to feed Fern, who now mostly ignores me as she keeps her nestlings warm and safe.