Lonesome Whippoorwill

Whippoorwill

I wake to the sound
Whippoorwill

Achingly lonely
Whippoorwill

Calling at midnight
Whippoorwill

I join his vigil
Whippoorwill

But none comes, to be
Whippoorwill

With him or with me
Whippoorwill

It is too soon.

Whippoorwill

Whippoorwill

Whippoorwill

Wordless Wednesday

A Little Night Magic

Eight pairs of eyes watched as the sky blushed and the sun slunk further toward the horizon. Eight pairs of binoculars scanned every movement of the dozen or so Harriers that coursed back and forth over the marsh. Seeking. Hoping. Flocks of geese arrowed their way home for the night unnoticed. The wind blew damp and cold across the water. The excitement was palatable.

The birders had arrived singly and in pairs to witness the magical transition of day to night. They talked quietly among themselves. One man was there for the first time this year. Another and his wife were visiting from England. One woman had been there before and knew what to expect. We were winding up a fruitful day of birding and were not yet ready to go home.

The sun finally sunk behind the hill and a different bird appeared far out over the water. They all strained to make out the bird in the gloaming. Was it a Harrier? Hmmm, maybe not. Does it have a white rump? Yes? No? No! Could it be?

Ala Ka Zam! As if by magic the Harriers disappeared and were replaced by Short-Eared Owls. First there was one far in the distance. Then several others were scrutinized for field marks. Finally one flew above the dark hills into the fading glow of the sunset. The bird’s silhouette and its barking call clinched the ID. A collective sigh mingled with the clouds of breath.

The birders stayed in the dropping temperatures stomping their feet until it was too dark to see. The barking stopped and the birds flew off silently now into the full dark to hunt for their daily mouse. The birders slowly got into their cars to go home for their own evening meal. The last to leave, we relinquished the nighttime marsh to the denizens of the dark.

Score!

Pine Grosbeak in Sullivan County, NY eating crab apples. And I was afraid we wouldn't find them. Silly me. We also saw dozens of Common Redpolls. While I saw nothing new today, thanks to my travel companion and all the folks who gave the detailed directions I had a great winter birding day.

Bringin' Home a Baby Bumblebee....

$2.95! I pulled in.

“Fill it with regular. Thanks.”

While I waited for my tank to fill, I glanced over at the shopping plaza across the street. I was struck by all the gulls swirling around the parking lot. I had not seen many gulls there before, so it was interesting and unusual. There were not just one or two, but dozens. I assumed they were Ring-billed Gulls. I was too far away to see any field marks clearly, so I sat enjoying the movement of the white birds against the clear blue sky.

As I watched them, I noticed 5 vultures riding a thermal above the gulls. I always look at vultures, because sometimes even this far north there may be Black Vultures. The vultures circled closer to the where I was parked and as they banked I clearly saw the wing patches flashing in the sunlight. They also have a fat blunt look to the wing. Black Vultures are much more, hmmmm, flappy than Turkey Vultures. They soar less. These looked as if they were having a great time.

They chased and played in and out of the trees and around telephone poles. One vulture repeatedly dive-bombed another one. I watched as they flew first this way and then that. I wondered if they were a family group. Or, maybe it’s mating season for vultures? Off in the distance tiny pepper specks of Turkey Vultures rocked on the wind, above it all. Almost stately compared to the frenetic activity of their smaller cousins.

I remember how excited I was the first time I saw a Black Vulture in Florida. Then, about 10 years ago I started to see them occasionally in central Jersey. Curious, but cool. Now they are here all season long like Turkey Vultures. There are less of them, but they are here.

Do not dismiss vultures. They provide a much needed service.

Window Watcher

A lively discussion of politics, with occasional asides on the folly of creating a résumé for a pre-schooler,  torture, homogeneous societies and 1984’s Big Brother were swirling around but I was no longer listening.  A movement in the tree outside of the dining room window had caught my eye.  I scanned the tree where I had seen the bird fly.  Sure that it was a Downy, I was looking for the familiar black and white.  It did not re-appear.  I took a sip of coffee and tuned back into the conversation.

It was one of those raw dreary gray winter days. The book group meeting last week had been postponed because of a snowstorm.   This week there was talk of an ice storm but we had come to Molly’s to talk about 1000 Splendid Suns anyway.

I looked out the window again checking for signs of precipitation.  At the first drop, I was prepared to bolt for the mountain in the hope of beating the storm. 

Again, I saw something.  I watched for it to come around from the backside of the tree, expecting to see the Downy Woodpecker.

“BROWN CREEPER!  There is a brown creeper.” 

Many of the women in my book group are also birders.  They jumped up and came around the table to look out the window too.  The small brown bark-colored bird obliged with a slow spiral up the tree and out onto a slanted branch.  Everyone had good looks.  

I am fond of Brown Creepers.  There was a time when I rarely saw them.  But living on the mountain I see them frequently, most often in winter, usually in the woods, and sometimes in my backyard.  I had never seen one in a suburban neighborhood.  It was not a life bird or even a year bird, but it was definitely a good bird for a raw day in winter.  

Winter Finch Invasion.

“I had 4 Pine Siskins.”

“I had 12 Pine Siskins and a male Purple Finch.”

“I got both House and Purple finch, great for comparison AND a Red-breasted Nuthatch.”

“Millie, had Evening Grosbeak.”

All eyes turned to me expectantly.

“The bears haven’t gone down yet. I haven’t put out my feeders.”

They turned away with pitying looks.

Argh! This is annoying. Everyone else is seeing great winter finches at their feeders. I have not seen a Pine Siskin in 15 years; an Evening Grosbeak in 10; or a Purple Finch in at least that. (I have seen Red-breasted Nuthatch thanks to my friends that do have feeders out.) But that’s it.

Here in the Mid-Atlantic the buzz among birders is about the winter finch irruption. This is supposed to be the biggest flight since the late 90s. The tree seed crop has failed in Canada’s boreal forest. The birds are leaving and arriving at feeders down here.

So, hang up your feeders, we are expecting guest from out of town! I am hoping for frigid blasts of cold arctic air so the bears will den up and start their winter snooze, and then I will join you. Until then, tell me what kinds of birds you have at your house.

Bermuda Longtail

“White birds! White birds!” I lunged and staggered out of the surf. Without my glasses even the beach chairs were a blur.

“Where? Where?” I yelled as I groped toward where I thought my chair was.

I found my glasses and whirred around. My sister was pointing up at the rocks that protected the bay. Sure enough. There were 2 white birds, wheeling and darting around the rocks. I squinted against the morning sun. The birds winked in and out as they turned and the sun flashed off their wings. They were far and the binoculars were in the hotel room. Of course.

I shaded my eyes with my hand and watched as more birds joined the original 2. Soon there were 6, then 9, then 13.
They weren’t behaving like terns or gulls. Could it be?

We both stood there shivering in our swimsuits facing into the sun, hoping and praying that they would come closer to shore. I needed to see the tail. As more birds joined the throng, a few came closer. We could see the black wing tips and wing patches. But I wanted to see the tail. Finally, one bird wheeled off and flew in front of the black surface of the rock. We could easily see the tail streamers and the black markings on the otherwise white bird. Ah. Thank you.

The White-tailed Tropicbird, known locally as a “longtail” breeds in Bermuda. But it was late September; the season was over. An otherwise abundant bird was not common at all. The birding deities smiled on us on our last day on the island.

The present

Karen looked out the window. She could see Chester coming across the lawn. He had a present. He often brought presents. She sighed and wiped the suds from her hands. Not again….

The move to the country had been draining for both of them. There had been three moves in four years--first the house, then the apartment, and now this place in the country with 5 acres. The apartment had been nice and big. They had lived there alone, developing quite a rapport. When the apartment building was sold and they were evicted, it was devastating. But that was behind them now. There were finally settling in to country life.

The property bordered a small marshy area, where they could hear peepers in the spring. The first time she noticed the sound, she had no idea what it was. She had even called her mom and held the phone out the window, both of them wondering at the cascade of sound.

The same thing happened with the birds. They were very different from the city birds. She loved watching them. She loved listening to them in the early mornings. When she couldn’t sleep in the depth of the night, she would lay awake eavesdropping on the conversations of the Great Horned Owls. She would try to pick out the different bird songs. She went out and bought 3 different kinds of birdfeeders. She loved the birds. Chester loved the birds too.

Chester loved all of the outdoors. He loved the woodland creatures. He loved roaming the property. He loved napping in the shade of the trees. The outdoors was so much more interesting than the indoors. He was happy. When he came back from his jaunts, he often brought something back.

Karen opened the door and stepped outside to see what it was this time. She saw something brown. Crap. It was a bird. Huh. It was a full grown robin! How had he caught it?

“Come here, honey. Let me see.” Chester came up to her. There was a gleam in his eyes. He burbled with happiness. As she bent down to see, she noticed that the robin’s eyes were open. The robin blinked at her. It did not struggle, but lay quietly. She carefully, pried opened Chester’s mouth and the robin flew off, unhurt. The robin sat in the tree across the lawn and started preening. Chester glared at Karen lashing his tail. Karen raised her finger and tenderly bopped him on the nose. “Don’t bring anymore presents!”
He was a pain, but she loved him dearly. Bending, she stroked him from head to tail before picking him up and carried him back inside. There were dishes to finish. The view of the robin still busily cleaning his feathers was the best present. She stood for a moment with Chester in her arms and smiled at the robin. Then she closed the door.

Surprise!

I have been to many birding festivals. Some of them are large, well established affairs; while others are small or new or both. They are all so different. The Kachemak Bay Shorebird Festival in Homer Alaska is in its 15th year. It is well organized with field events, workshops, boat tours and fun-filled (can I say zany?) evening doings. There are lots of people yet it is small enough that I keep running into the same folks over and over again. It is sorta like having friends in town.

One of the joys of birding in a new location is knowing that many of the birds will be new. For some of them, it is simply a matter of going to where they are and bingo—like the Red-faced Cormorant. Others, I have searched high and low for, to no avail—like those irruptive Crossbills. But when there is a surprise, it is an unexpected bonus. The surprise for me was an immature Yellow-billed Loon. They are around, but not common. There had been talk about one being found, but then it disappeared. No one at seen it recently. I asked the captain on our boat trip if there was any chance that it was still around. He didn’t sound hopeful. Oh, well. We all shrugged. He offered the possibility of an Aleutian Tern. We all happily abandoned the loon for the tern.

Coming back into the harbor after seeing Tufted Puffins, Red-faced Cormorants, thousands of Common Murres and one Aleutian Tern; what should appear next to the boat, but the oddest, palest loon I have ever seen. It just popped up beside the boat and then disappeared. Surprise!



Gosh, I love surprises. You just never know.

If I were a bird, this is the one I would like to be.