Friday is supposed to be the hottest day yet, but dawn is still tolerable, a threatening 65 and eerily quiet at 6 AM; whatever chorus there might have been is long over. Chimney Swifts hurtle across the clouds.
The Tink Call
The lone Barn Swallow is bug hunting by 6:07, and a snatch of Louisiana Waterthrush echoes from downstream. Thirteen swifts chase close behind a Cooper’s Hawk that follows Bald Eagle Creek upstream.
A nearly inaudible series of ‘tinks’ sounds from deep in the sycamores to my right, then stops. I first chalk it up to American Redstart, but then I’m not sure. It ceases just as the hawk flies by. Perhaps it’s an alarm call of some kind.
At 6:11, the tink is back, but I’ll be damned if I can see the tinker. Meanwhile, the swallow is joined by another, and they sit close together on the wire, engaging in mild chatter for over six minutes until they head off downstream.
Finally, I think I synch the tink with a bird: a female American Redstart, as I had suspected, moves briefly onto the outer foliage of a Norway Maple. The night spectrum has been deluged by this species, and I believe there are several about right now, maybe recent arrivals. Still, though…
An adult Bald Eagle appears low over the river, flying upstream. I check the tink on Merlin but it isn’t quite right, and finally it hits me: Hooded Warbler! Sure enough, the tink is a perfect match. The bird in question has stayed out of sight the entire time.
By 6:45, it’s utterly quiet. At five after seven, twelve Red-winged Blackbirds pass in formation over the tip of Sapsucker Ridge, in formation, heading east. More silence, and then an American Robin starts up the aerial predator alarm. Cooper’s Hawk, I suppose. At 7:12, the first Common Grackle goes over, and then a male Scarlet Tanager flashes over the rooftops.
Saturday Morning
A quiet exploration of the Plummers’ Hollow crossing at dawn today, but not much is about under dark clouds and heavy humidity, with more storms on the way. A Bald Eagle is out before six. Later in the morning, I discover that the cheap interface between the NFC microphone and the laptop is broken. I have lost several days of recordings and am set to lose several more until I can procure a back up. Hundreds of dollars of hardware are still fine, but brought to nothing by a five-dollar trinket.
A Late Start
After a concert in New York City, we’re back in town by Sunday, and the weather is in the glorious seventies, all puffy clouds and blue. The storms chased us east and died at sea, and now it’s a whole new world. In my fatigue, I head up for a round of the field to see if the north winds brought any surprises.
The tail end of the morning, around 9:40 AM, is a chorus of American Goldfinches, Common Yellowthroats, Eastern Towhees, Indigo Buntings, Song Sparrows, Field Sparrows, and White-breasted Nuthatches from all sides as I scatter three American Crows hanging around the black walnuts during a morning visit to the mulch heap for scraps.
The young and the old are becoming indistinguishable. Few gawking fledglings are about now, and I suppose only the goldfinches, Cedar Waxwings, and the odd robin still have nestlings. Yellow-throated Vireos, for some reason, are singing from various sides today, as Red-eyed Vireos are quieting down at last. They’re still around in numbers, but no longer dominate the soundscape.
The Least of Them
In the black locusts, crawling with sparrows, buntings, and yellowthroats of every possible plumage, the House Wrens are multiplying. Once again my time is limited, but I think there is more than one family of them around, mixed in with Carolina Wrens.
For the first time this year, I watch a Ruby-throated Hummingbird, just having fought with a yellowthroat, seesawing as if in a courtship flight. It flies back in forth in a shallow U, mere inches above the goldenrod, skimming an Indigo Bunting.
And then, a diminutive Empid shows up to feed in the tangles. The first Least Flycatcher I’ve seen on southward migration this year, bold eye-ring and an occasional call: it’s the last of the regular July migrants I hadn’t yet detected.
Winds are good enough for raptors today, and two juvenile Bald Eagles hang out for a few minutes in a thermal over the top of First Field, joined by a small kettle of Turkey Vultures, then they’re gone. On the way out, the Hollow is almost dead silent by 11, with only the distant sound of Tufted Titmice. At the balcony, only goldfinches and cicadas are vocal.
Beggars
I reclaim the balcony from the sun before 4:30 PM, moving the chair gradually into better position as it pops in and out of the cumuli and finally disappears behind the roof. Turkey Vultures are plastered all over the larger tower, and at one point they all fly off in tandem and stream over to a dark patch right overhead, evidently the perfect thermal. A pair of juvenile Bald Eagles, perhaps the same from this morning, mix right in, and a few minutes later, an adult shows up. The eagles linger for a bit with a single Turkey Vulture, while the other vultures disappear. Then they, too, disappear, replaced with a spiraling Cooper’s Hawk.
Not long after that, the tower is cover with vultures again, as a lone Common Raven circles about the ridge. Then, in an instant, all the vultures lift off again and stream single-file down the ridge toward a boiling mass of Turkey and Black vultures over the Gap, in front of distant cumulonimbus. I count 60 or more.
Close at hand, a high-pitch, insistent call can only be nestlings, or perhaps recently fledged, Cedar Waxwings. The calls go on and on, interspersed with the vocalizations of adults.
And then the hummers. All the ones I see here are either females or juveniles—not a ruby throat among them. At first, a single hummer shows up, buzzes about the feeders without drinking, then sits on the nearest wire, a few feet from me. It shivers and flicks its tongue, stares at me, flies off, comes back, examines the feeder, perches, stares.
I take the hint. The feeder is empty. Our sugar water supply is low, so I can only refill the smaller feeder. When I put it back, the hummer makes a point of examining the place where the big feeder was, and ignores the one I just refilled. And then it starts: play, or aggression, or both, with a rival, or perhaps it’s a sibling. The original hummer appears to be guarding the feeder, and when the second shows up, it attacks, and off they go, disappearing into the sky, or toward the woods, or over my head, buzzing and chipping. Eventually, as they’re engaged in the umpteenth round of combat, a third shows up and feeds.
Number 2 Nest
I spot the American Robin flying up under the eaves of the garage labeled 2, directly in front across the parking lot. Third brood? It’s hard to tell if anything else out there has any nestlings left. The goldfinches have been frenetic for months, as have the waxwings, but perhaps there’s an errant Gray Catbird, Northern Cardinal, or Song Sparrow making a third attempt. Overall, thought, nest #2 seems like the end of the line for the breeding season, with a day left until August. Everything is about to get very, very busy.
Before going in to fix supper, I hear the first Blue-Gray Gnatcatcher of the balcony-year, somewhere back in the foliage along Bald Eagle Creek.