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Archive for July, 2011
Thursday, July 28th, 2011
 Wild raspberries. Here at the 44th parallel, the planet brims with life at this time of year. It’s thick with it. Fruitful. The landscape is cloaked with lush greenery—so lush, it’s relatively hard to glimpse the swift creatures that lurk and flit and fly with its shady confines. It’s the season of growth and reproduction. The race to multiply, to pass along genes. And of course, the planet being tilted, there’s a deadline.
 Savannah sparrow. Sun, clear skies, mild temperatures. First sound I heard out there this morning was the voice of a northern cardinal. Just about the purest, sweetest bird song you can imagine.
I can’t recall hearing the house finch, oddly—I’ve probably just grown accustomed—but I did see house sparrows, heard song sparrows, saw herring gulls playing in the blue upper breeze. Had some visitors from Texas (who vacation in Maine), which was a nice distraction. After our chat, they headed down the coast and I took off on my bicycle for a really, really nice ride. Faster going north than south, thanks to the direction of the breeze. Heard song sparrows, goldfinches, chipping sparrows. Saw doves, gulls, crows.
After work, I met my friend Liz at the Beech Hill parking lot for an impromptu bird walk. Jack was excited for the extra company. Ascending the brambly trail, we took note of a few quiet peeps and calls—well, other than the vociferous vireos—and batted away some deer flies. Before long, we came upon a few ripe raspberries. Ate a couple. That’s three wild berries I’ve snacked on up there so far (strawberries, blueberries). And great clusters of green blackberries are everywhere. I think blackberries might be my favorite. I can hardly wait.
We heard distant crows, goldfinches in overflight, waxwings. I heard the little rapid-fire notes of a young chestnut-sided warbler. Finally, nearing the upper fields, the birds became less shy, especially towhees and song sparrows. The song sparrows, in fact, were singing—three or four of them, some emitting only partial calls. I had a feeling we were listening to young males practicing.
 Spruce cones. At the little stretch before the final turn up the hill, Liz noticed a large patch of blueberries, and we snacked a little. And by “we,” I mean the three of us. Because Jack learned today that he can just dive in and pick blueberries right off the bush. Good dog.
The phoebes are still hanging around the nest at Beech Nut. And I saw a solitary savannah sparrow dancing about on the porch of the hut, collecting seeds or bugs or something.
Coming back down, came upon a young couple ascending. Each carried a baby sling; each sling contained a tiny (month-old?) baby. (Growth. Reproduction. The race to multiply.) Not long after, in the lower woods, we stopped to listen to chickadees—and there came a thin, high-pitched cry from the canopy. Waxwing-like, but not quite. Liz saw a bird up there, so I grabbed the binoculars and spotted a flycatcher. Although I thought I caught the abrupt, partial call of a least flycatcher, I decided it must’ve been a pewee. Pretty sure there were youngsters up there, and the adult was scrambling to pack flies into hungry young gapes.
Heard a hermit thrush and a veery. Counted sixteen birds today. Not bad at a time when they’re furtive, secretive, laying low.
 Jack harvesting blueberries Later, at home, from my back deck, I happened to see a tiny bird—a warbler of some kind, I suspect—zip madly into a small break in the greenery, and then I heard the faint peeping of youngsters. The hole in the leaves was no larger than a bowling ball, and this bird was moving fast. Sights like that amaze me.
And now I wait for blackberries.
Addendum: late tonight, from my back deck, I heard the mournful cry of a loon.
Beech Hill List
Beginning at 5:45 p.m., I hiked the wooded trails.
1. Red-eyed vireo (voice)
2. American crow
3. American goldfinch (voice)
4. American robin
5. Cedar waxwing
6. Chestnut-sided warbler (voice)
7. Eastern towhee (voice)
8. Song sparrow
9. Eastern phoebe
10. Common yellowthroat (voice)
11. Herring gull
12. Gray catbird
13. Black-capped chickadee (voice)
14. Eastern wood-pewee
15. Hermit thrush (voice)
16. Veery (voice)
Elsewhere
17. Northern cardinal
18. House sparrow
19. Herring gull
20. Mourning dove
21. Chipping sparrow
22. Common loon
Tags: American crow, American goldfinch, American robin, black-capped chickadee, Cedar waxwing, chestnut-sided warbler, chipping sparrow, common loon, common yellowthroat, eastern phoebe, eastern towhee, eastern wood-pewee, gray catbird, hermit thrush, herring gull, house sparrow, mourning dove, northern cardinal, red-eyed vireo, song sparrow, veery
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Wednesday, July 27th, 2011
 Eastern towhee (juvenile). When you keep a nature journal, you feel compelled to use dispassionate scientific language. You use terms like “adult” and “immature.” Or, in the case of birds, you distinguish between “nestling” and “fledgling” and “first-year male.” Other young animals are “kits” or “cubs,” “pups” or “whelps.” But if the sight of a young critter gives you a little inner “awww,” how can you not just break down and call it a “baby”?
 Baby mouse. The woods are full of baby birds these days. Around my place this cool, lovely morning, I was aware of baby sparrows, finches, crows (yes, baby crows), titmice, and cardinals. While riding my bike, I saw baby mourning doves sitting with their parents on utility lines. And after work, hiking Beech Hill with Jack, we were surrounded by baby warblers, towhees, robins, catbirds, phoebes. Heard, but not seen, were the young of other species, I’m sure—and you know the youngsters are lurking about when you hear the alarm chip of, say, an adult alder flycatcher.
Red-eyed vireos are vocal just now. And when I heard they repeated quay! notes near the wooded trailhead, I feel sure they’re calling to their fledglings. (There’s that word.) For a week or two I’ve watched young speckled robins flitting around. I’ve seen baby yellowthroats, chestnut-sided warblers, black-and-white warblers. And after a sweet, cool hike up—and a spectacular view of the bay from the summit—we came down into a large gang of baby towhees. They were chipping and flitting about. The adults were hollering and scolding. The young would come close and eye us curiously.
 American crow. Not a lot of species today. (They’re laying low.) But descending the lower woods, I happened to spot something moving at my feet as we strode quickly down. I stopped, pulling Jack up short. Somehow, he never saw it, didn’t even know it was there—but I spotted the tiny mouse just frozen there not two feet away. Got some photos. Deer mouse? White-footed mouse? I’m not sure. But whatever it was, you’d have to call it a baby. It was pretty friggin’ cute.
And I don’t know what you call a baby porcupine, but the one we watched earlier this year waddling slowly up the trail in front of us had to be just about the cutest baby animal I’ve ever seen in the wild.
And what a heavenly night it is out there just now, sweet and cool. If I don’t sleep well, there’s something wrong with me.
Beech Hill List
Beginning at 5:15 p.m., I hiked the wooded trails.
1. Red-eyed vireo (voice)
2. American goldfinch
3. Common yellowthroat (voice)
4. Cedar waxwing
5. Eastern towhee
6. American robin (voice)
7. Gray catbird
8. American crow
9. Alder flycatcher
10. Song sparrow (voice)
11. Eastern phoebe
12. Black-capped chickadee (voice)
13. Black-throated green warbler (voice)
14. Hermit thrush (voice)
Elsewhere
15. House sparrow
16. Northern cardinal
17. House finch
18. Hairy woodpecker
19. Herring gull
20. Mourning dove
21. Chipping sparrow
22. Ring-billed gull
23. European starling
24. Tufted titmouse
Tags: alder flycatcher, American crow, American goldfinch, American robin, black-capped chickadee, black-throated green warbler, Cedar waxwing, chipping sparrow, common yellowthroat, eastern phoebe, eastern towhee, European starling, hairy woodpecker, hermit thrush, herring gull, house finch, house sparrow, mourning dove, northern cardinal, ray catbird, red-eyed vireo, ring-billed gull, song sparrow, tufted titmouse
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Tuesday, July 26th, 2011
 Apple. I think there ought to be six seasons: Winter, Mud Season, Spring, Summer, Pratfall, and Fall. I suppose that’s because I got thinking about pratfalls today. Slapstick routines that happen in everyday life. And make you laugh.
 Common yellowthroat. It rained overnight. The morning oozed onward, cool and cloudy—last weekend’s heat, a scrap of memory. I wore jeans for a change. House sparrows—a family of them—fluttered around out front, perched on my Three Islands Press sign. Cardinals and house finches sang as I spent hours at my desk, solving puzzles. Could’ve ridden my bike, but blew it off. Instead, I had an afternoon coffee and pressed on.
At the end of the day, coming up the stairs, the toe of my right sandal caught the tread—too much sitting, I suppose—and I stumbled, and the contents of the coffee mug I was carrying splashed up directly into my face. Just as if my hand belonged to some merry prankster. As coffee (cold, thankfully) dripped from my chin, I had to laugh.
As Jack and I then started up the chilly hill, and we came upon the stretch of trail where the baby porcupine kept tumping over backward, I found myself chuckling again. And I recalled last year, when I tromped off through some off-trail weeds to attempt a photo of a redstart, and I tripped over Jack’s leash and fell on my butt. My left foot happened to be under my butt, and I heard a snap—still, had someone been watching, it surely would’ve seemed comical. I ended up limping a little for many months thereafter, only this year realizing my left ankle had finally heeled. Ha.
 Staghorn sumac. No sign of any fairy-tail beast along the trails today. But I did hear a crazy, agitated robin. It delivered not just the usual peep-peep! alarm notes a robin will normally make, but a frantic-sounding, high pitched series of near-screams. I got a glimpse of the bird up in the poplars. I suspect it was a youngster—maybe a first year male, feeling its oats. It kept ahead of us up in the trees, carrying on like crazy. Finally, as we rounded a turn, it flapped swiftly away. And a solitary feather drifted down and landed directly in front of us in the middle of the well-worn path. That struck me as pretty funny. A kind of figurative pratfall. I pocketed the feather (an interesting, gray-and-white one), and we continued on.
Not many deer flies in the cool and damp. I experimented with the few buzzing my head and decided they’re more persistent when we’re moving. Something about movement triggers their dive-bombing instinct. Interesting.
Notably, I heard the song of a titmouse in the lower woods. In the upper woods, there came the rapid-fire burst of little notes that I’ve come to recognize as belonging to fledgling chestnut-sided warblers. Catbirds, waxwings, yellowthroats, chickadees. A secretive alder flycatcher. Mostly silent veeries. more robins.
The blackberries are getting larger but remain green. Blueberries along the upper trail. And little green apples hanging from the apple trees.
Phoebe at the summit. Hazy hills.
 Robin feather. Tonight a thick, swirling fog has moved in. The temperature inside dipped to 70 degrees (F), so I closed nearly all the windows.
Bike ride or no, I shall sleep well tonight.
Beech Hill List
Beginning at 5:30 p.m., I hiked the wooded trails.
1. Red-eyed vireo (voice)
2. Veery
3. Common yellowthroat
4. American goldfinch
5. Tufted titmouse (voice)
6. American robin
7. Eastern towhee (voice)
8. Black-capped chickadee (voice)
9. Chestnut-sided warbler (voice)
10. Cedar waxwing
11. American crow
12. Gray catbird (voice)
13. Song sparrow
14. Eastern phoebe
15. Alder flycatcher (voice)
Elsewhere
16. Northern cardinal
17. House finch
18. House sparrow
19. Herring gull
20. Double-crested cormorant
21. Mourning dove
Tags: alder flycatcher, American crow, American goldfinch, American robin, black-capped chickadee, Cedar waxwing, chestnut-sided warbler, common yellowthroat, double-crested cormorant, eastern phoebe, eastern towhee, gray catbird, herring gull, house finch, house sparrow, mourning dove, northern cardinal, red-eyed vireo, song sparrowe, tufted titmouse, veery
Posted in Lists, Observations | No Comments »
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| Bird Report is a (sometimes intermittent) record of the birds I encounter while hiking, see while driving, or spy outside my window. —Brian Willson |
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