Dark and dank November morning — Tuesday — stuck at the garage for NFCs as the chance of precipitation turns into a dreaded “icy mix.” At 6:30 AM, it’s in the upper thirties, breezy and spitting something, but not enough to keep a good bird down. At 6:41, a Fox Sparrow sings from somewhere as the White-throated Sparrows start up, hesitantly at first, then breaking into full song from off in the woods and fields.
Hugging the garage on the main house side is a rambling, old forsythia patch, and at 6:45, dark shapes come streaking down out of the field to congregate in it and on the gravel driveway. Their flight calls give them away: White-throats, joined by Dark-eyed Juncos, a Field Sparrow, a White-crowned Sparrow, a Fox Sparrow, a few Song Sparrows. The general impression one gets in the gloom is that a few dozen birds have lifted up out of the nearby goldenrod, but in reality some have flown up to a quarter of a mile, from as far away as the spruce grove on top. One visitor, a Mourning Dove, arrives straight over the mountain from some night roost in Grazierville.
The forsythia is a staging ground of sorts for the bird feeders, but with one problem: the small birds still aren’t visiting it. In a month or less, the ones that are left will coat the ground around the back steps well before it’s light enough to ID them, but for now, they seem content to sing and call and quarrel in the bushes.
Minutes later, an indeterminate number of American Goldfinches seem to be flying about the field, emitting weird, squeaky calls mixed with more familiar sounds. They always sound to me like they’re asking questions. This goes on until I can vaguely make them out, bouncing this way and that from goldenrod to black walnut and back.
As the dawn takes shape and the wintry mix resolves itself into a light rain, Tufted Titmice begin to activate: right now, they’re the primary beneficiary of the feeder seeds. An American Crow caws and then, simultaneously at 7:13, a Purple Finch flies over, calling, a Common Raven croaks from the powerline somewhere, and White-breasted Nuthatches start yank-ing.
Later, the antenna recording reveals that one of the last migrants, a Snow Bunting, came through and perhaps even alighted somewhere for a minute or two at the break of dawn yesterday. It gave its characteristic rattle and three ‘teers’ on its way to Sinking Valley or somewhere for a while: Plummer’s Hollow 200 #202.
Torrent
The winter storm never really materialized, but on Wednesday morning I’m eager to see if the inch or two of rain we received brought down any waterfowl. All the float pools and dabbling spots on the Little Juniata River have been swept away by the freshet, but maybe the pond holds a surprise.
A white-tailed deer stumbles across the tracks from the river and scrambles up the scree onto Laurel Ridge. Not far beyond, a plump raccoon does the same. By 6:55 AM, with rain still filtering down, I am up above the pond, watching muskrats building homes. Nothing stirs on the water surface as the first Winter Wrens and Carolina Wrens call and sing. And then, pair after pair of Mallard rushes in from the farmland to the south, straight toward me, then crashing down into the water, immediately starting the splashing, quacking, and chasing that seems to signal that the pair bonding process is still underway.
On the way back to the crossing, Golden-crowned Kinglets are as brave as ever, investigating me from the branches of nearby staghorn sumacs, and a Brown Creeper calls from high up.
The Feast Is Prepared
At dawn on Thursday I’m back at the still-unfrozen pond. Yesterday, 16 Mallards showed up, but today, it’s at least 47. I scan it every which way, but no other species is here, so I head back. Rounding the bend of the mountain, I look up to see a small, lone duck hurtling in from upriver somewhere. It plummets decisively into the pond, so for due diligence, I trudge back the way I came and scan the pond again, in case this is something else. At one point it seems certain that the late arrival is a different species, but all I can make out is Mallard duck-Mallard drake-Mallard duck-Mallard drake, 23 pairs or more of utter mayhem.
Back at the bridge, both wren species are calling above the much diminished torrent. In town, however, is where most of the action is. Down low, American Robins and European Starlings are gathering in the tall trees, more of them every day. The reason is apparent: the feast has begun. The trees that line the downtown avenues have begun to offer their fruits.
From beyond Bald Eagle Mountain, what seems at first like a Peregrine Falcon emerges, long, pointy wings in the wind and long tail as well: a raptor heading northwest, circling a few times in a quite unfalconlike manner. A Northern Harrier, looking for a good field to quarter for rodents. A bit later, a much larger shape lifts off and circles low, searching the rooftops and interstate fields. A Golden Eagle on the young side, after about five minutes it’s had enough of Tyrone and hops on a ridgetop current, tucking its wings and heading south. Not long after that, a Red-tailed Hawk circles the Gap.
Useful Eaters
By Friday morning it’s apparent that the quite noticeable uptick in noise and activity I am detecting from the balcony these days is directly related to the ripening fruit crop. Every Friday is more boisterous than the last, and it’s a boon that will continue well into next year. At last, I’m beginning to feel as if I’m completing the circle; all I need to hear to round out the big year is a robin singing in the astronomical twilight, somewhere in the depths of December, from beyond the Burger King grease cloud.
This morning, the dawn chorus starts around 6:43 and dies down before 7. With the lack of vehicles, the nuances of distant wrens and sparrows can be detected, along with the local Northern Cardinal and the sharp calls of robins. Around seven, a Winter Wren moves along the rooftops across from me, always out of sight but leaving a trail of sharp notes.
At 7:11, two flocks of starlings commute high over Sapsucker Ridge, well over 100 in all, with a few robins mixed in. A few dozen starlings peel off and dive down to the treetops, and the robins spiral after them.
With little commotion, a Cooper’s Hawk flies slow but straight across my field of vision, alighting somewhere in the tallest sycamore in the confluence. A robin makes a hasty departure, as a starling on the top stares down and ‘pips.’
The apex of activity is right around 7:36. Flock after flock of Rock Pigeons whirls up from downtown, while other pairs fly in to join them from the junkyard, and then they head out along the crest of Bald Eagle Mountain to parts unknown. A Blue Jay starts calling as two Common Raven fly down from around the towers, cross the Gap, and settle up at the train station. Starlings, House Finches, and House Sparrows zip about.
A Bald Eagle comes out of the Gap and continues upriver, and finally, the Cooper’s Hawk exits its hiding place and heads into town.
The last scene is a crow who perches in the 10:30 poplar, cawing volubly: an unusual occurrence. After a few minutes, it’s had enough, and rejoins its kin up on the mountain.