Yesterday’s rain and wind must’ve carried some of them here. This sunny humid morning found them up and about, getting to know—or re-know—the woods and fields and hillsides. They arrived into a landscape of green things barely growing—but soon to be quickening toward lushness and ripeness. I can imagine early humans—at this latitude, say—worrying as mud season dragged along whether the time of growth would truly come again. We live with the faith that it will.

So it’s kind of fitting that a day like this would fall on Easter Sunday. I don’t know about any kind of divine miracle of rebirth—heck, it’s all a miracle to me.

Jack and I gathered ourselves fairly early to get out to Beech Hill, to see what was shaking up there. While warming a quick mug of coffee, I saw out the window a little flock of waxwings sitting in the still-bare crown of a maple overhanging the parking lot. Crows about. A house finch singing. En route to the hill, I saw a turkey vulture float by. The morning had gone surprisingly mild by the time we started up the wooded trail.

Right away I heard them calling—a phoebe, the distinctive chip note of a white-throated sparrow (first-of-year bird), chickadees, crows, a robin. By the time we’d walked the first straight stretch along the sugarbush, I’d also heard a couple of singing towhees (“drink your teeaaa!”), a singing hermit thrush, the cries of herring gulls. As we snaked along the first curves, I spotted a large hawk flying through the trees. It perched fairly close for just a second then flew off to a more distant perch hidden by trees. I suppose it could’ve been a cooper’s hawk, but it seemed larger—and it was near where I’d heard the red-shouldered a few days ago. I’m going to call it a red-shouldered. Maybe.

Then a raven flew over, croaking. I heard song sparrows, more chickadees. The hazy sun warmed the upper eastern trail; soon I had sweat under my hatband, and Jack had begun to pant. At the upper fields, I heard more song sparrows and more towhees—at least a half dozen towhees, all told, each of them singing. Saw a solitary kestrel perched atop a distant tree.

No one else at the summit by the time we reached Beech Nut—but a kestrel (the same bird?) was hovering over the western field not far away. Despite its rapid wingbeats, I managed to grab a few photos.

Continuing down the open trail, I had to contend with a western breeze rushing in my ears, but still I made out the voices of a goldfinch and, somewhere down the southern slope, a tree swallow (first-of-year bird). Also in that direction, I heard a flicker and a jay—and then, carried by the wind, the high trill of a savannah sparrow. First singing savannah of the season.

But even more exciting was the song of a field sparrow that suddenly erupted from down toward the road. Then another. Dueling field sparrows. About that time, a little family was hiking up with a kite, and I stopped to point out one of the singing birds. Near the gate, I met another friendly group with a (leashed) dog—and then heard a (first-of-year) purple finch. A titmouse was also singing from somewhere across the road. Twenty species already.

I hadn’t seen or heard anything new by the time we’d come back up and over, but a pair of kestrels were hunting down the open eastern hillside. Song sparrows still. Oddly, though, the towhees had stopped singing as we made our way back down. Just after we passed the muddiest part of the lower wooded trail, we met a pair of woodland runners racing up. Shorts and T-shirts and (I think) those funny-looking shoes with toes in them. “This is a lot different from running on pavement,” I overheard the woman say.

As we passed the vernal pool, I looked over and saw a male mallard just sitting there. That was a surprise.

Twenty-one species on Beech Hill this morning.

Within a couple hours—although the temperature remained at least 60 (F)—the sky had gone mostly overcast as I took off on a bicycle ride. Which itself proved fruitful: the cry of an osprey (in town), rock pigeons (the business block), a singing cowbird (coming back up Route 1), a cormorant (flying over). At the top of one hill, in the distance to my left, I saw a large, slow-flying bird that at first I took for a great blue heron until I noticed it being harassed by a crow. The crow looked tiny compared to the bird, which could only have been a bald eagle.

Near Maine Sport, I heard a little commotion above the rush of traffic and looked up to see a pair of low-flying Canada geese. Soon after, across the Camden town line, I heard a (first-of-year) chipping sparrow.

Back home, the little nuthatch family was active. As I watched them I heard a cardinal calling from somewhere behind me. Then a big black bird flew up onto the trunk of one of the hillside oaks—a pileated woodpecker. I snuck in for my camera and crept back out to snap photos. At one point it paused, reared back, and let fly. Theirs is such a joyous call.

A little while ago, to a background of peepers, I was admiring the stars between a few small, faintly illuminated clouds when there came the sudden, sweet flight song of a woodcock.

The nest, the egg, rebirth. It’s all a miracle to me.

Beech Hill List
Beginning at 8:45 a.m., I hiked all trails.

1. Eastern phoebe
2. White-throated sparrow (voice)
3. American crow
4. Black-capped chickadee
5. American robin
6. Eastern towhee (voice)
7. Hermit thrush (voice)
8. Herring gull
9. Red-shouldered hawk (?)
10. Common raven
11. Song sparrow
12. American kestrel
13. American goldfinch (voice)
14. Tree swallow (voice)
15. Blue jay (voice)
16. Savannah sparrow (voice)
17. Northern flicker (voice)
18. Field sparrow
19. Purple finch (voice)
20. Tufted titmouse (voice)
21. Mallard

Elsewhere

22. Cedar waxwing
23. House finch
24. Turkey vulture
25. Osprey
26. Rock pigeon
27. Brown-headed cowbird
28. Double-crested cormorant
29. Bald eagle
30. Canada goose
31. Chipping sparrow
32. White-breasted nuthatch
33. Northern cardinal
34. Pileated woodpecker
35. American woodcock