The eastern slope.

Out and about today—a cold, sub-freezing day—I saw quite a few birds. Gulls, crows, starlings, one duck. And also a solitary red-tailed hawk perched on a tree above a quarry on Old County Road. Nice to see the big fella.

Truckin' up Beech Hill.

At Beech Hill late in the day with dog, I appreciated the cold and stillness and quiet. Especially the quiet (although I think it might’ve had something to do with the cold). But the stillness was remarkable, too. I heard chickadees at the parking lot but saw no other birds hiking up. I did (as I often do) think about the prospects that a harrier might still be hanging around, what with our relatively snowless winter so far. Northern harriers feel right at home on Beech Hill—they sail low above its grassy slopes, looking (and listening) for mice and voles. But all I saw was a blue, a bronze hill, and my breath.

Until the summit, when the calm silence prompted me just to stop and stand still. And look down the long eastern slope. And listen. (I’m thankful I have a dog that likes to stand still also, and look, and listen.)

I thought I might hear something interesting. And I did: a distant dog bark that sounded a little like a barred owl. You almost had to hold your breath to hear it. I heard very quiet traffic sounds from Route 1 below me. Standing still, I scanned that far margin, imagining that perhaps I’d see herring gulls off toward shore, but what I saw was a swift brown movement, a tiny glimpse of white—a harrier, veering low over the far edge of the far field, my naked eye could tell by its white butt. I’ve seen them (the same bird?) there before. I didn’t move, didn’t raise my camera. I watched the bird lift over the trees and disappear beyond them.

Northern flicker.

Then I saw a flash of motion nearer, at the base of the hill. From the way it flew—undulating—I could see it was a flicker. Then it called, its piercing note sounding much farther away than the bird itself. And then it flew again, and another bird flew with it. Two flicker at the base of the hill.

Then, standing still, feeling the chill on my cheeks, I heard the soft notes of a robin. The robin’s voice came from about the same distance as the flicker’s, but to its right, directly below, but I couldn’t see the bird. So I raised my binoculars and focused on a lone, leafless hardwood standing about where the sound of its tseet! call had come from. And there it was. A solitary American robin. (Actually, it was probably a Canadian robin wintering over.) Tseet! Tut-tut. Tseet!

I took a deep breath (and so did Jack) and scanned the far line of land again, and there they were—four or five herring gulls, cruising along their busy coastal route.

On descent a few minutes later, the sound of my footfalls seemed loud. The sun dipped behind a strip of cloud, and a solitary American robin flew over the trail in front of us, heading in the direction of the setting sun. Same bird? Possibly—but I have a feeling there’s more than one up there.

The western slope.

A minute ago stepped out onto the dark back deck. Stood still. Felt the promise of snow in the air.

Beech Hill List
Beginning at 3:15 p.m., I hiked the open trail.

1. Black-capped chickadee (voice)
2. Northern harrier
3. Herring gull
4. Northern flicker
5. American robin

Elsewhere

6. American crow
7. European starling
8. Red-tailed hawk
9. Ring-billed gull
10. Mallard