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Chipmunk | |||||
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The mystery bird returned this morning. This time its call started on a lower note, proceeded through six of the robinesque declarations, and ended—as yesterday—in a single soft whistle about an octave down. Five or six of these, then it stopped. The chipmunks didn't stop, however: their mission is to gather as much seed as they can in the time they are alotted, a mission that involves an occasional skirmish among themselves. The day around them was sunny and cool. I heard a jay, a flicker. A robin. Chickadees are particularly vocal, and the oak-top starling brood seems about ready to leave their nest hole. Snapshot: A catbird moves quietly in the undergrowth. A yellow-rumped warbler chips about in a cluster of unfurling leaves. A mourning dove and gray squirrel ignore each other in the grass beneath the feeder, as goldfinches hog the perches above. After a time, a cardinal visited. Parulas and other warblers moved through. It was a cloudless morning. But through the day, white cumuli built, and in late afternoon a gentle shower dampened the earth, rousing fragrances. In the rainbow beyond Clam Cove, I watched a solo osprey fly—vivid black and white against the arching spectrum. (I took its photo only through my mind's lens.) After the rain, doves, finches, and song sparrows gathered, and the towhee began to sing. A good day. One I shall remember. | |||||
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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 | |||||
©1997-2010 by 3IP |