Waning Gibbous
You will not be surprised to learn that, like every dawn this year, today’s weather is different than yesterday’s. No wind today; it’s a dead-calm 22, and a bit hazy. Mostly clear, and a Sunday, so quiet. I’m hoping for continuation in the uptick of activity and species I’ve been noticing for a couple of days. And I’m not disappointed.
The first birds are Canada Geese, and they’re noisy. These are still the local crowd, I guess from the Reservoir in the hills west of town; by 6:46 AM they’re already heading over eastward, through the Gap. Four groups pass by, in all, and only the 4th is silent.
JR, the junkyard raven, spends a lot of time honking and croaking without coming out of hiding. Last evening, the very last bird I saw was JR arriving to an elevated roof of the old tannery, just right of the freeway overpass at the railroad tracks. It perched for several minutes, examining its surroundings. I had to go in and check the oven, and when I came out, it was gone. This was the first time I’ve been able to pinpoint its last known location prior to where it actually sleeps, I’m guessing in a secluded nook quite close by.
At 6:59, a Song Sparrow goes over, one of those flight calls I can usually only pick up on quiet Sundays.
The first Rock Pigeon flock is the largest; some 6o birds, with a single outlier that later joins up as the group heads over the mountain. I am getting the definite impression that the larger flocks have guides, shepherds, or lookouts.
It’s graying in the east, not inspiring weather at all.
The second wave is a clamorous ‘cheeseburger!’ from a local Carolina Wren that had been tutting earlier, and then a bunch of species at once, at 7:07: Common Grackle (one overhead, calling); American Robin calling; American Tree Sparrow overhead, singing; European Starling. By 7:11, with the first White-breasted Nuthatch, the species count is already at 16 and most of the regular species have been recorded. Activity almost immediately subsides.
As I predicted, no raptors are up, and as the dead calm continues, it takes until 7:27 for an American Crow to vocalize, with JR finally leaving its roost area at the half hour. The Downy Woodpecker is already calling, while the starlings and House Finches are singing non-stop.
In between gurgles and cheers, around about 7:32, the starlings are also doing their best meadowlarks, Killdeer, and who knows what else. At first I am fooled, but I finally realize that they are NOT responsible for a Northern Flicker calling up Bald Eagle Creek somewhere, followed immediately by a Blue Jay from the same direction. I don’t believe I’ve detected either species in a balcony sit this year.
A Black-capped Chickadee flock arrives and starts working the budding black willow close at hand. A House Finch sings as it flies. The neighbor hurls invectives at his dog. Time to go.
The 200 Takes an Unexpected Jump
A little after eight and I’m off to the pond. Near the old railroad trestle, an American Crow keeps watch, but otherwise, the day has gone dull. I trudge down to what I assume will be a frozen wasteland, but before I have time to raise binoculars, a group of Canada Geese explodes from the water. I had the brief impression of a couple standing on the ice. They leave behind a skittish group of Mallards that is quick to follow, except four that seem OK with my presence. No other species, but it’s nice to know that open water still exists.
Back to the car. At one point, a pair of Mallards in the river below catches my eye, then a bird-like shape flits across the water, back the way I came. A possible something, I think, and I consider chasing it. Easier to play my guess, though, and I am correct: one rattle from my speaker, and the year’s first Belted Kingfisher swoops up onto a snag across from me. It doesn’t stay long, and rattling again, it heads upriver. Plummers Hollow 200 #62, and the first kingfisher we have ever recorded in the hotspot in February. They don’t leave the area in the winter, but are quite scarce in this part of the river before mid-March.
I drive up Plummer’s Hollow slowly with the windows open, straining for calls. I catch some chickadee noise from far overhead and figure ‘what the heck!’, stop the car, and see what’s about. The chickadees are way up in the tops of the tallest tulip-trees, well over a hundred feet high. In the faint hope of something else, I play another call, and voila! A pair of Golden-crowned Kinglets appears, vocalizing, far above. Where have they been all winter?? I saw one or two into mid-December, so it’s hard for me to believe that they’ve been here since, undetected. Whatever—I’ll take it! Plummer’s Hollow 200 #63, and one less species to worry about in spring migration.
Proto-Spring
Up on top, my brief trip turns into a sojourn triggered by an actual bird chorus. Te estas poniendo fuera de control?, texts Paola? I mumble-text something about this being my prerogative.
Even more than yesterday, the sunny-ish day is filled with bird songs and calls. Carolina Wrens, Northern Cardinals, American Tree Sparrows, Dark-eyed Juncos, Black-capped Chickadees, Tufted Titmice, Song Sparrows, even a Mourning Dove are vocalizing like I’ve not heard in months. A Song Sparrow is doing some sort of scratchy subsong from the barberries at the northwest edge of First Field, and several American Tree Sparrows are holding forth. White-throated Sparrows are all about, skittish as always, but no ‘sweet Canadas’ yet. A pair of Field Sparrows shows up, tripping the eBird filter as “rare.” They’ve been here all winter; as with the towhees, we have yet to find out whether they will stay into the spring, or head elsewhere to breed.
Down in the Hollow below the Forks, silent Pileated Woodpeckers scatter from the car. Here and there, dead snags have been savaged, all bark and holes. The Pileateds stick around, pretending I don’t see them, while a bolder Hairy Woodpecker stays in plain view , working a stub a few feet off the ground.
The Thrill of the Indeterminate
My Sunday afternoon balcony sit is gray and dull. It looks like rain but never rains, and smells vaguely of manure, with overtones of perfume from the laundromat. Occasionally, the entire 19th-century building vibrates: an industrial-size drier is finishing its cycle.
A pair of distant waterfowl emerges from over the mountain, north: corpulent, probably Canadas, but you never know. One of the best parts of this pastime is the expectation of something rare, something new, wrapped up in the thrill of spotting a bird too far away to identify, heading your way. This happens a lot on the balcony, with so many raptors and waterfowl visible from a couple miles out.
They’re Canadas.
From 3 PM onward, a House Finch sings unceasingly. First, from the top of the tallest sycamore to my right; then, when disturbed, it flies up behind, out of sight, and keeps singing. It’s got to be perched on the eave.
The Downy Woodpecker starts back up at 4:29, and a White-breasted Nuthatch lands briefly on the nearest power pole.
A trio of Black Vultures comes flapping and gliding back through the Gap, heading west, at 4:47. I suspect they’re returning to a roost on the west side of town by the hospital somewhere.
Everything about this afternoon is muted except the House Finches. Nevertheless, as it drags on, the nuthatch returns to the power pole to probe for something, long enough to get a decent shot off.
At 5 PM, a small blackbird flock comes through, to my right this time, by Sapsucker Ridge. They’re a handful of Red-winged Blackbirds and Brown-headed Cowbirds. Six minutes later, a silent pair of Common Grackles returns, directly over my head, male and female.
Once again, the robins are returning in numbers. At 5:09, 17 go over to my right, in front of the mountain, with a fully integrated European Starling in the flock. At 5:15, 66 more robins fly over.