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Catbird. There's a place in the upper north yard where water stands after a rain. An inch or two of rainwater stands there now, result of light, steady showers most of yesterday. This wet spot favors mosquitoes and rots grass—the kind of place most want out of their lawn. Not me. It's my birdbath. A couple catbirds took baths there this morning. This nesting pair has taken up residence in the tangled hillside out back, amid an overgrown series of old dumps beneath tall oak trees. In the rain yesterday, I saw a ruby-throated hummingbird zipping about the hillside, investigating the wet greenery. In the warming sun this morning, song sparrows and the towhee pecked about under the feeder, while above goldfinches and house finches took their seed directly. From the starling nest in the oak cavity rose a constant, raucous chorus. A male phoebe chased another off the premises. And silent crows passed intermittently, flying low. A short while ago, as last light lingered above the western horizon, I stood for a while in the evening breeze. Bright Venus hung low above the hill, an hour or so ahead of Jupiter, with a half-moon trailing high behind. The air was cool and fragrant. Suddenly, I heard the eerie whistle of the wingbeats of a lone American woodcock, somewhere in the darkening sky. | |||||
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Bird Report is a discursive, intermittent record of what's outside my window in Rockport, Maine, USA (44°08'N latitude, 69°06'W longitude). —Brian Willson | |||||
Today I watched as one of the birds poked about in last fall's leaves, looking for bugs or something. But unlike a sparrow, this bird didn't use its feet to scratch open a promising area; it grabbed leaves in its beak and cast them violently aside—flung them high and up to a foot-and-a-half away. More than once, the bird itself ended up draped in old damp laves that'd descended straight down. A comical display, but apparently fruitful.
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