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Afternoon. Awash in sunlight, high in the new-leaved oaks, a gang of wood warblers flits about, dining. They're as small as the reddish, runt-sized leaves—and hard to see. Fact is, my bare eyes can only pick up their staccato movements; but through fieldglasses, their occasional wing-flutters look like tiny, bright, diffuse auras against the oncoming light. Thought I saw a necklace-wearing Canada warbler among them, but I can't say for sure. First thing this morning, yet again, I suffered that old peculiar sense of dismay at hearing an unfamiliar bird call. It sat somewhere in a tree right before me, this bird; it gave out five distinct, robin-like declarations, followed by a much lower, quieter note. Repeatedly. A large bird, I imagine, and likely one I'd recognize if I saw it. But I didn't see it. It stood still, then went quiet. Maddening. Under the feeder, meanwhile, foraging chipmunks stocked up on sunflower seed. Two take turns—sometimes engaging in a short chase if they cross paths—cramming their cheeks, mumps-like. Goldfinches, house finches, and chickadees visited the feeder itself. Below it, among the chipmunks, dined the towhee and a white-throated sparrow. Far up the hillside, I heard the shouts of an ovenbird and the unmistakable buzzings of parula warblers. Other birds: herring gull, crow, the resident hawk, robin, catbird, song sparrow, starling, cowbird, and a distant osprey. | |||||
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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 | |||||
©1997-2012 by 3IP |