American robin.
When I was a lad of about 10, my family made a winter trip to Oberstdorf, Germany. I remember it for feeling the coldest I’d ever felt, for seeing the most snowfall I’d ever seen, and for the fact that, on the gondola headed up an Alps peak on a cloudless day, I couldn’t open my eyes. Honestly, I couldn’t. Snow blindness. I didn’t end up skiing. I couldn’t see.
Beech Hill field.
One of my earliest memories—it might’ve been in New Haven, Connecticut, where I was born—is of being outside on a chilly, brilliantly sunny day. The world seemed all blue and white and platinum-bright. I feel sure it was in spring.
In the wee hours last night, I found myself awake (unusual for me) and figured I’d do a little reading. It must’ve taken me two or three minutes to be able to make out the words on the page in the glare of the not-so-bright bedside table lamp.
In late morning today—a warm and cloudless vernal equinox—it occurred to me that this is by far the brightest time of year here on the 44th parallel. In summer, the sun arcs higher, and the photoperiod is long, but the leafed-out hardwoods intercept the light, leaving deep recesses of shade. And in fall, the leaves hold tight until the light is low. Only now, and for the next few weeks, does sunlight flood unobstructed throughout dormant landscape. Dormant, but burgeoning with potential energy. Dormant not for long.
And it’s a time of year for northern cardinals. I heard cardinals singing all over the place during a long bicycle ride—to say nothing of the loud treetop singer out back of my place. But this fellow has a peculiarity, it seems: he’s mixing song sparrow notes in with his typical cardinal repertoire. At one point I thought I was listening to two birds—his delivery began like a song sparrow’s, all chimes and trills, then switched to a regular ol’ sweet repetition of cardinal notes. (This evening, I heard him doing this again, but reversed: cardinal notes first, then song sparrow notes. I’ve never heard anything like it.)
Also while out riding—well into the 60s (F) with, truly, not a cloud in the sky—I heard eastern phoebes calling in two roadside locations. Another first-of-year bird. Which isn’t really surprising, considering all the flies that’ve hatched in recent days.
They were buzzing around at Beech Hill on this bright, sun-splashed afternoon. A few familiar birds on the wooded trail, but no harrier or bluebirds this day. On yesterday’s hike I found a cell phone, which I returned to its owner this morning. Dan rewarded me with donuts from Willow Bake Shoppe. (Thanks, Dan!)
More woodcocks this unseasonably warm equinoctial night. Jupiter has now overshot Venus (or vice versa), and I notice that Orion will soon be moving out of the dark part of the sky. The stars are plentiful—though they’d be more plentiful if I lived farther from town. That’s something I aspire to. Perhaps it has to do with my sensitivity to light.
Beech Hill List
Beginning at 5 p.m., I hiked the open trail.
1. Mourning dove (voice)
2. American crow
3. American robin
4. Black-capped chickadee
Elsewhere
5. Northern cardinal
6. Tufted titmouse
7. House sparrow
8. House finch
9. Song sparrow
10. Herring gull
11. Rock pigeon
12. Great black-backed gull
13. Eastern phoebe*
14. Mallard
15. American woodcock
*First-of-year bird
Tags: American crow, American robin, American woodcock, black-capped chickadee, eastern phoebe, great black-backed gull, herring gull, house finch, house sparrow, mallard, mourning dove, northern cardinal, rock pigeon, song sparrow, tufted titmouse
