Partly cloudy.
Today was cool and partly cloudy, and the redstart sang.
In fact, the redstart hasn’t really stopped singing for days—at least a week. I imagine it’s a lonesome male who’s staked out the lush acre up the hill out back but has yet to attract a mate. Early on, his song had five notes, but I’ve noticed lately it has only four. And he delivers it so persistently, that this morning I figured I’d time its frequency. Eight seconds. On an average of every eight seconds, the redstart sings. All day. Say, from 6 in the morning until 8 at night. Every eight seconds. That’s 6,300 calls a day, 44,100 a week. The bird is a tweeting machine.
Honeysuckle.
The redstart rises early, flits from tree to tree, picks flies out of the air, and sings. That’s pretty much all it does. There’s method in this madness, of course—the goal is propagation. To sing that song, to flash those red wing patches, to attract a mate and beget other red-and-black singers. So they can beget still others. To keep the genes alive.
But there must be yet another purpose—say, to keep the bugs in check. Because without the redstart and its other fly-eating kin, black flies, mosquitos, caterpillars, other insects would surely run rampant and their populations explode. And then perhaps, from overpopulation, their numbers would reach some tipping point and crash! And then all the good these insects do—all the important little interconnected trickle-down effects—would vanish like the last spring snow.
Alas, this particular bird isn’t having any luck. I guess it’s all a matter of timing.
As was my quiet Beech Hill hike this late afternoon with Jack. All a matter of timing. The time of day, the time of year. The particular weather—even the phase of the moon. What happens on the hill depends on all these factors. And today they meant few birds.
A vireo at the parking lot. No ovenbirds at all. A redstart in the aspen grove. No veery, no hermit thrush. No catbird, no waxwing, no alder fly. No phoebe, no savannah sparrow. What’s more, the only bird I actually saw on the hill today was one I rarely see: an American woodcock, which dog and I flushed coming around a bend in the trail. It didn’t sail off and away as they usually do—it simply fluttered low up ahead along the trail—and that got me thinking it had a little group of chicks somewhere nearby, but when Jack began to sniff around, I urged him on up the hill.
Highbush blueberry.
Heard towhees, yellowthroats, song sparrows. Heard a yellow warbler sing. And coming back down, I heard a robin and a chickadee. And that, dear reader, was that. The birds aren’t as active so late in the day. They’re not quite so active when it’s cool. Moreover, in early June, they’re going about the secret business of sitting on eggs, of feeding hatchlings—a silent part of the season.
It’s all a matter of timing. And so today, oddly, my Elsewhere tally has more birds than my Beech Hill List.
Tonight is unseasonably cool.
Beech Hill List
Beginning at 5:15 p.m., I hiked all trails.
1. Red-eyed vireo
2. Chestnut-sided warbler
3. American redstart
4. American woodcock
5. Common yellowthroat
6. Eastern towhee
7. Song sparrow
8. Yellow warbler
9. American robin
10. Black-capped chickadee
Elsewhere
11. House finch
12. Northern cardinal
13. House sparrow
14. American crow
15. Herring gull
16. Rock pigeon
17. European starling
18. Common grackle
19. American goldfinch
20. Mourning dove
21. Blue jay
22. Gray catbird
Tags: American crow, American goldfinch, American redstart, American robin, American woodcock, black-capped chickadee, blue jay, chestnut-sided warbler, common grackle, common yellowthroat, eastern towhee, European starling, gray catbird, herring gull, house finch, house sparrow, mourning dove, northern cardinal, red-eyed vireo, rock pigeon, song sparrow, yellow warbler
