Notes Made in Early Spring

COURTESY WOODSWALKS&WILDLIFE
After an odd winter bird wise, it is comforting to see spring unfold in a pedestrian way. Early migrants are returning when they are “supposed to,” and some of the usual winter denizens, like dark-eyed juncos, are once again roaming around my property. On March 30 I heard my first barred owl of 2023. The next day I heard the returning broad-winged hawk and the juncos showed up. On April 3 in the morning, a song sparrow hopped around under the feeder. On Tuesday a brown creeper spiraled up a red maple about 30 feet away beyond the feeder and the song sparrow was singing along the creek.

Way back on March 10 I saw my first redwings. We don’t have them right around the house, but they live in the swampy areas behind beaver dams along Kimpton Brook. Sometime last week I became aware of grackles calling to each other in the trees down in the Flat; I haven’t yet seen or heard any up here in the Center.

On April 2 I saw my first turkey vulture; it was teetering over the Flat too. There is more snow lying around up here. The Center is only about 300 feet above the Flat, but this time of year it makes a difference, especially on the north-facing slopes, where the snow is still over a foot deep in places.

Since I first heard the woodcock on one of his chittering flights on March 30 at dusk, we have had some cold weather and snow. I was a little concerned for the welfare of this invertebrate-eating bird. But this morning at dawn, when I took the dog out, he was peenting away, flying around over the meadow.

I could have sworn I heard blue jays last week, but I must have been wrong because I have seen neither hide nor hair of them since. They, like the juncos, took themselves off to a better (forage) place back in December and I haven’t seen one since. I don’t think I have ever missed blue jays before.

While a white-breasted nuthatch (or two) we have continued to occasionally but regularly visit the feeder, the red-breasted variety departed from my vicinity sometime in late January or early February. At the beginning of the winter, we were patronized by both species and then the northern, more colorful one simply disappeared. Presumably they have gone back north? They irrupted southward last winter, and we seemed to “have extra” around all year.

On my walks in the woods in the past week I have seen actual flying insects. Not many, but they are hatched and about. And sure enough, I saw a silent phoebe along the brook on Wednesday, betrayed by his flicking tail.

Robins, which I have seen sporadically all winter, are now in evidence everywhere that isn’t still covered with snow. They are still moving around in flocks at this point. I have not heard any singing, nor have I seen any chasing each other around in a manner that suggests the defense of territory. Instead, they seem especially restless, clucking to themselves as they abruptly lift off from the ground in one place and set themselves down somewhere else a dozen feet away. This migratory restlessness is called Zuganruhe (which must have some idiomatic meaning, as translates literally from German as “access rest”) and you will notice it in most migrants when they alight in your yard after a long night of flying northward. I have always attributed it to their being ravenous, but apparently it is more of a general physiological state of arousal that helps drive them onward as they fly northward either several hundred or several thousand miles, depending on the species.

Unlike the robins, the song sparrow along my brook has already decided it is home. He is singing regularly and as each day passes the song gets long and louder. Migrating birds afflicted with Zuganruhe will sometimes sing little snatches of their songs, reportedly out of simple agitation, but the sparrow outside my window has begun to sing one of his many songs. Song sparrows have about six or eight songs that they rotate among, depending on the time of year and their purpose of the moment. The one I am hearing now is one of the quieter, more restrained songs.

The juncos, which are really gray and white sparrows, have begun to utter low trills that represent the first burblings of their full but simple territorial declaration. Like the robins, they are still roaming around in loose flocks. The coniferous woods where they nest on the ground are in many cases still full of snow.

The chickadees and titmice have been singing their simple two-note songs since January. They responded to the lengthening of the days that began after the winter solstice on December 21; they didn’t wait for anything like spring or the setting up of territories. As dawn came earlier, they began to sing more often, with the chickadees beginning before the titmice.

Both these related species make soft, muttered notes fairly constantly as they forage. They are just keeping in touch with one another, saying “I over here” as they search for stunned insects, tender buds, and energy-rich seeds. If one in the group goes silent, having been picked off by a Cooper’s hawk or a barred owl, presumably the rest of the flock takes cover.

The familiar chick-a-dee-dee call and the titmouse’s wheedling tsee-day-day-day are more directed communications that are made to actively warn of danger. Their songs, however, document the stirring of hormones induced by the seasonal changes around them. Although they have yet to establish territories and are still seen in loose mixed flocks, sometime later this month they will disperse and begin to breed.

Bill Chaisson has been a birdwatcher for over 50 years. He lives and works in Wilmot.