Autumn Bluebirds

 

I tend to get morbid in fall. I realize that's not a particularly original reaction to the season that brings us Halloween, Day of the Dead, and innumerable religious holidays that center around remembering those who have cast off their mortal coil. And then there's the whole leaves falling from trees, plants turning brown and shriveling up, cold wind blowing in from the north business.  This year it hit me harder and more suddenly than usual. Perhaps because it's the last fall in which I will watch my children head back to school, or because it's the last fall when I'll still be less than half a century old. Every year fall is a reminder of passing time and aging bodies, but this year that reminder has a more ominous ring to it. A couple of weeks ago, I went out to the garden to gather tomatoes for dinner and found, in place of the laden beds of fruits and vegetables that had threatened to overwhelm our kitchen and our stomachs for more than two months, there remained only a handful of overripe cherry tomatoes clinging to blackened, withered vines. We hadn't even had frost yet. The only way I could describe how I felt was betrayed, as if July's and August's abundance had constituted a contract, a promise of endless summer. Fall comes every year, yet somehow, this year, I thought it might pass me by. And then COVID struck our house, knocking back three out of four of us for a week. Another betrayal--by our bodies, by the public health system, by society. Early this week, when I'd regained enough energy to make the trek to the mailbox, I paused at the spot where our driveway takes a hard left turn at our neighbor's field. He hadn't mown this summer, instead letting it grow into waves of tall grass that turned tawny in late summer, when a farmer from down the road came and cut and bundled it into hay bales. Fresh grass grew in since then and, despite the drought, stretched in a mat of bright summer green. Another promise. The leaves in the trees along the edge of the woods had begun to change, however, golden and orange and russet. Darting between the grass and the trees was a small flock of bluebirds, six, seven, eight of them, their cerulean wings bright against the greens and coppers.  A few of them alighted on the next box we put up next to the field a couple of years ago. Perhaps they were part of the brood that had grown up there this summer, or part of the three broods from last summer. Perhaps they were travelers checking out the real estate for next year. It's hard to feel melancholy while watching bluebirds. There's a reason they're the bird of happiness--their bright feathers, their lithe flight, their gentle song. In visiting the nest box, the green field, the golden trees it was as if they were saying, Yes, summer is over, and spring a long way off. But we'll be back next year, and so will the sun. A version of this post went out recently to subscribers of my newsletter, along with some bonus material. Subscribe here and receive a free PDF of my illustrated short essay "Eleven Ways to Raise a Wild Child."

Flash Friday ~ Extraordinary Days

 

I'd planned to go birdwatching my first morning in Mexico, but I didn't make it farther than the balcony of my hacienda, where a cacophony of new and unfamiliar birdsong filled the new and unfamiliar trees. I sat with my binoculars, my journal, my bird books, and a cup of tea and watched as great-tailed grackles, great kiskadees, Yucatan jays, a Yucatan vireo, an Altamira oriole, a golden-fronted woodpecker, and a plain chachalaca paraded through my temporary backyard. These are, no doubt, the crows, blue jays, and cardinals of the Yucatan Peninsula, but to me they were rare and wondrous sightings. On the ground below, a Mexican  agouti--a cat-sized rodent that looks like a guinea pig that swallowed a squash and is trying to walk on stilts--traipsed past the swimming pool. 

The trees, vines, and shrubs planted in the lush and meticulously maintained gardens and all things you might buy at the garden center to keep in a pot, only super-sized. Coconut palms grew right out of the sand on the beach, just like they do in cartoons. Beyond the walls of the resort, the jungle grew in a dense, impenetrable tangle. Over the next several days, I watched a troupe of howler monkeys parade across the tops of walls (tiny ones clinging to their mothers' bellies) and saw white-nosed agoutis nose among the tables of an outside dining area. I sat in the plaza one morning and watched two actual parrots steal a woodpecker's stash of seeds from the hole in a dead palm tree. I snorkeled in the warm, salty, and buoyant water of the Caribbean, watching schools of sequined fish flash among the coral, anemones, and urchins. I snorkeled in the cold, mineral water of a cenote, where sunlight filtered blue in the water, tiny fish nibbled at my skin, and scuba divers disappeared into a deep, scary cave. 

I purchased junk food in a Mexican grocery store, where real shoppers bought plastic bags of raw pork, packets of dried chiles, and heads of iceberg lettuce. I practiced my extremely rudimentary Spanish by asking every shop owner in the contrived local marketplace, "Tienes los sellos para postales? Donde esta los stampitos?" With no suerte (selling stamps, or sending postcards, it would appear, is not the done thing).

I rode a rusty bicycle among the Mayan ruins at Coba and followed its song to the most spectacular bird, the black-headed trogon (see above). With each "bop, bop" of its tune, it would splay its black-and-white striped tail feathers in a V, while staring at me with that intense blue-ringed eye. 

This is why we travel, is it not, to find the extraordinary in what, to the people who live there, are likely ordinary, everyday experiences? To shake up our notions of what's expected and see the world through new eyes?

Flash Friday ~ Rare Birds

I don't often chase after rare birds. If I happen to be in the neighborhood where one's recently been sighted, or if a friend invites me on an expedition to seek one out, I'll happily go. I've seen a red-billed tropic bird this way, as well as a redwing, a dickcissel, and Icelandic gull. I've had less luck with the snow goose, roseate spoonbill, and black throated grosbeak. The rare birds are a thrill, but I'm equally content to wander the woods behind my house in search of the annual cycle of migrants or watch everyday chickadees and nuthatches on my feeders.

Yet when I heard heard about the Stellar's sea eagle making an appearance in Maine, I knew I needed to at least try to see it. My first indication that this giant raptor was in town was in a New Year's Eve social media post from a friend of mine, which showed his field sketches of the bird's massive yellow bill and fierce gaze. Despite its ice-age splendor, the sea eagle looks a bit like the giant bird that falls in love with the professor in my favorite childhood book, Professor Wormbog in Search of the Zipper-Uppa-Zoo, by Mercer Mayer. I wanted to be there the coast, trying out my Christmas gift spotting scope, sketching this prehistoric bird. The place it had been sighted was only an hour from my home--practically in the neighborhood. Besides, when would I ever have the chance to see this far-from-home visitor again? I made plans to drive down the next day.

The Stellar's is the largest of the sea eagles (members of the genus Haliaeetus, which includes bald eagles). Standing around three feet tall and weighing up to twenty pounds, it's the size of a toddler, a toddler with an eight-foot wingspan. This massive bird doesn't normally hang around in Maine. Its usual stomping grounds are along the coast of Siberia, particularly the Kamchatka Peninsula, with winter forays south to Japan. This particular bird is believed to be the same one that appeared in Alaska in August and has been hanging around Canada's Maritime provinces this fall, with a foray into Massachusetts last month and one unsubstantiated sighting in Texas. In other words, it's far from home and doesn't seem to know how to get back, although it could be forgiven for mistaking Maine for Siberia.

As I made my way down the peninsula--not Kamchatka, but Georgetown--on a foggy New Year's Day, I began to question my decision. There were cars--a lot of cars. Far more cars than should be driving toward Reid State Park in the wintertime. I saw Vermont, New Hampshire, New York, and Massachusetts license plates. My butterfly teacher, Bryan, has written about birders and our carbon emissions in pursuit of the next grand thing. Now I was one of them, a member of a smog-emitting flock. 

But I'd come this far. There was not turning back. As I neared eagle ground zero, I noticed cars heading back the other way. I pulled over and asked a passerby, "Any luck?" He told me the bird hadn't been seen in a while and everyone was heading over to the state park. Good, a chance to pee. I joined the flow of cars heading back inland and into the park, where I availed myself of the facilities. But now what to do? The park has miles of coastline. Birders appeared to be milling around, heading in multiple directions, no apparent direction of migration. I overheard someone saying it was back at Five Islands and watched the crowds return to their cars and head back down peninsula. It reminded me of something, this ebb and flow of birdwatchers. Murmuration of starlings, perhaps, or, more likely, characters in an old slapstick movie directed by Mel Brooks.

Yet here I was, a member of the ridiculous cast, and I joined the stream of cars, found a place to park beside the road, walked down to the dock and found myself a rock on the shore to sit on. All of the other birders stood on the hillside above and behind me, and I wondered if I was missing something by being lower and closer to the water. The crowd was quiet, birders being a sedate lot, and I pulled out my journal and sketched the islands in front of me, stopping every few minutes to scan the trees with my binocs. The fog had lifted some, and I saw a bald eagle perched on at tree at the edge of one island. I realized that even if the bird did make an appearance out there, it would look like little more than a smudgy dot. I'd left my scope in the car up the hill. Would such a sighting even "count"?

An unpainted lobster boat tootled out toward the farthest island, a handful of birders on board. Sound carries over water, especially on a foggy day, and I could hear the pilot tell the people on board that no other fishermen were transporting birders because of the liability, but he just wanted people to see the bird. I supposed I could have hung around the dock, hoping to catch a ride on a later foray, but I didn't have any cash with me--I imagined he was charging--and while I don't have a great fear of water, I do have a strong respect for the North Atlantic Ocean in wintertime. And while it was nearly flat calm, I still didn't relish the idea of heading out into the fog in a lobster boat with no transom, and likely no lifejackets, in January.

I hung out on my rock for about an hour, until I got cold and a little bored, and headed home. Later in the week my great birding friend Cheryl invited me to go on a hunt for the eagle. It hadn't been seen in a couple of days, and she and another friend of ours had hatched a scheme to search a nearby island (car accessible), in hopes of finding the bird. We spent the day on the island, and I got to try out my new scope. We saw some sea birds and tree birds, and even a red-shouldered hawk. We hiked all through the enchanted forest of a preserve I'd never known was there, we chatted and laughed together, and we discovered a new bakery on the way home. But we never found the Stellar's sea eagle. And I'm okay with that.

Because the thing with rare bird sightings is that, as exciting as it is to see and learn a new bird, it's unspeakably sad to see a creature so out of place. The dickcissel looked cold, puffed out like a dandelion in a multiflora rose bramble in Portland, rather than a jungle in Central America, where it peered out from its yellow-rimmed eye and tried to fit in among a noisy flock of house sparrows. The redwing, a visitor from Iceland or Eurasia, looked less cold, but still confused. An oversized, disheveled robin, it arched its skeptical white eyebrow and stretched its wing, playing to the crowd of migrant birdwatchers who'd flocked from as far away as Tennessee. And the tropicbird could break your heart, beelining each summer from parts unknown to a cold, barren North Atlantic rock, only lobster buoys for companionship. 

Wherever that sea eagle is today, I hope it finds its way back home, nearly halfway around the world.

Watching the World Unfold

So much has happened this month! The babies turned 16 and 16 and 20, which is...like...I don't even know what to think about having a 20-year-old child. I need more time to process it, like another 20 years. In the meantime, outside, the grass has grown and the trees have made leaves. Flowers have come and gone on the alders and aspens and apples. We already have buttercups and blue-eyed grass in the meadow. Does it seem like spring is happening faster than it's supposed to? Does it seem like everything is happening faster than it's supposed to? (See: babies, above.)

Right now the whole world (or at least my tiny corner of it) is that perfect shade of new green where every leaf and blade is fresh and unmarked by drought or caterpillar nibble, and I want it to stay like this forever, except that I'm as much in love with the caterpillars that nibble the leaves (excluding the brown-tailed moth caterpillars; I don't love those at all) and the warblers that nibble the caterpillars as I am with the green. The other day I was watching a dragonfly whir around my yard and I saw a Phoebe dart after it and I didn't even know which one to root for. This is why I can't watch sports; I want everyone to win--the leaves, the bugs, the birds.

In other news, a painted turtle crossed our driveway the other day, heading away from a patch of soil Curry just rototilled. I'm hoping it laid eggs (and that raccoons don't find the eggs; okay, I'll root for turtle eggs over raccoons). We have tree swallows nesting in at least three birdhouses, bluebirds (for the first time) in another, chickadees in another, and a family of phoebes under the deck. Someone is building a nest foundation of moss in yet another house, and I'm hoping it's tufted titmice. We had a nestful last year and they were the most attentive parents, bringing bugs and clearing out the fecal pellets (unlike the swallows who live in insect-infested filth), and the babies chirped so sweetly from inside the box. I came very close to seeing them fledged but missed it due to impatience. I'm hoping for a second chance.

And this week so many butterflies appeared: tiger swallowtails, azures, American coppers, common ringlets, and a possible sighting of a harvester (the only carnivorous butterfly; if that doesn't give you nightmares I don't know what will). There's simply too much going on to waste time on things like work. I'm working on a plan to reconfigure my life. It's not fleshed out yet, but whatever it eventually entails, I know I need to leave May wide open so that I have time to watch the world unfold and contemplate how old my children have become.

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April Delights

 This winter was long, longer than most, despite its relative snowlessness (another reason to read apocalypse in the tea leaves). March brought no relief. It never does. But April, despite what Eliot said, is perhaps the kindest month. Warm breezes and wild flocks migrating north, even in years when the snow hangs around until Earth Day (this year the old snow was long gone, but a new dusting sprinkled down on the 22nd). And though I'm a Leo and a summer girl through and through, April may be my second favorite month. As the world begins to wake up, so too do I, turning outward and uncurling from a winter's introspection, which always, inevitably, leads to moroseness. And so I thought I'd take stock of what's waking me up and bringing me joy this April. 

Balloons
My father-in-law is a hot air balloonist. But that does not mean he hands out rides in the basket like candy. I've been up only once, long, long ago. Earlier this month, when he was taking the balloon for its post-inspection trial flight, he took E and Z along for the ride. C and I served as chase crew, and it was like a small miracle to see our two youngest children ascend into the sky in a rainbow.

Birds
April is the month the birds return, and with no leaves on the trees and none of those pesky other b-words trying to suck my blood, it's the month for bird watching. I made a resolution to bird every day this month, and I've managed 18 so far. A first-of-year bird appears almost every time I go out. This week's new arrivals: yellow-rumped warbler, belted kingfisher, American kestrel, broad-winged hawk, and hermit thrush.

Butterflies
Yesterday I stalked a velvety chocolate-brown mourning cloak through the woods. These butterflies overwinter as adults and are always the first to appear and a sure sign of spring. I was amazed a few days earlier to see a little blue butterfly, a northern spring azure, perhaps. I chased it through the field, it flashing luminous blue upper wings while I tried to sneak up to take its picture. Now I'm aquiver with anticipation of butterfly season.

Buds
I have no doubt that social media will usher in the downfall of civil society. Nevertheless, it has its good points. For instance, I've been keeping a close eye on the flower buds of trees and shrubs in the woods around our home and snapping phone photos when the buds open and sharing them on Instagramand Facebook. It's made me much more attentive to the slow unfolding of spring, and I'm discovering that there's much about tree flowers I've never noticed, like the flowering twigs of aspen and yellow birch are high out of reach, and oak flowers, which come out after the leaves, I've never seen before.

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Among the Birds and Butterflies

After a warm, dry, sunny September, October took a firm hand and reminded us all that the party's over, with gray skies, rainy days, frosty nights. Any mention of wool sweaters, warm hats, or woodstoves has me wanting to make like the woodchuck, tunnel underground, and hibernate until the sun comes out again next summer. Don't even say the words "pumpkin spice" in my hearing.

But back near the end of September, when the sky was still blue and the air not out to kill you, I got to spend a glorious day on the coast with my favorite birder. We went in search of rare birds—oddities that drop into Maine only during migration or that have veered north from their usual territories.

We saw the birds we hoped to see—American oystercatcher, royal tern, Capsian tern, and black skimmer—plus we got to observe some of the more typical shorebirds from amazingly close range. And we enjoyed a beautiful day outdoors, with no expectations or obligations.

As we moved around to different bird viewing locations, I couldn't help but notice other creatures on the wing—monarch butterflies. Wherever asters were in bloom at least two or three butterflies hovered, tanking up for their migration ahead. This abundance meshed with my observations of more monarchs this summer, both around our house and, especially, near the coast.

As we hiked along a trail that led to a point of land, we passed a native plants garden, mostly growing tall New England American asters, and there, fluttering among and dangling from the purple blossoms were more monarchs than I've ever seen in my life—dozens of them. Sharing the blooms were several painted ladies as well. Drunk on nectar, the butterflies let us walk right among them, completely undisturbed by our presence, more interested, I imagine, in imbibing the calories needed for their 3000 mile journey to Mexico. 

Just a couple of years ago, I feared I'd seen my last monarch. The caterpillars didn't appear in our fields in the numbers they had in previous summers. At least one or two years went by when I didn't see a single orange-and-black butterfly. Like all wild creatures we share the earth with, monarchs are struggling with habitat loss and fragmentation and a changing climate, and milkweed, the caterpillar's food source, has been disappearing from prime breeding areas in the Midwest thanks to pesticide use on roundup-ready crops.


I don't know what this roost of several dozen means for the future of the monarch butterfly, and I don't want to trade in false hope. But to have witnessed that big little gathering of an astonishing creature was a gift, one I hope that humanity doesn't squander.

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Wild Wednesday ~ Warblers

On Wednesday I go outside for a quick walk before I have to leave to pick the twins up from cross-country practice, and the trees at the top of the driveway are all aflutter and atwitter. I run back inside, grab my binoculars, and follow the flock into the woods across the driveway. I'm in a cloud of warblers. They barely notice me as they hop from tree to branch to leaf, fattening up for their long journey ahead. I watch one pull a fat green caterpillar off of a leaf and flutter to a nearby branch to feast.

Fall warblers are notoriously hard to identify. The young haven't yet feathered out in their adult plumage and the parents have shed their breeding regalia. I recognize some as yellow-rumped warblers, but the others remain a mystery, and far too soon I need to leave. By the time I get home, more than an hour later, the birds have moved on, and the next day the woods are silent, too.

The next Tuesday noontime I go out for a walk—exercise only, laps up and down the driveway. But on the third lap I grow bored and take a detour into the woods. A bird appears in the tree beside me, and then another, and another. One, two, three, four, five yellow-rumped warblers (all generously flashing their yellow rears and underarms) and one teeny tiny ruby-crowned kinglet. I don't have my binoculars, but I barely need them, the birds are so close. They move silently and efficiently, gleaning first one branch and then another, moving out of synch but more or less together in the same direction.

Not for the first time I marvel at the way that birds of completely different, unrelated species contentedly feed together when we humans barely get along with others of our own kind and only interact with other species when we are in the role of owner and they are pet or food or tool.

I accompany the small flock along the trail, until our paths fork, theirs taking them toward the swamp, mine looping back toward the house. In a clearing I pause and watch a white-breasted nuthatch whittle the branch of a dead elm tree. A confused spring peeper calls from the pond to my left, another calls back from the woods to my right. A cricket sings in the weeds, but the intensity of insect calls has greatly diminished after a handful of frosts.

When I reach the back side of the gravel pit, I see tiny birds rise and dance above the shrinking pond and give in, rush home to get my binoculars, and return. I find more yellow-rumps and a few others who will just have to be known as LBJs (little brown jobbies). A song sparrow hops around in the mud where turtles swam a couple of months ago.

Everyone by now has heard about the recent study that found a 29% decline in bird populations in North America over the last half century, with warblers being amont the hardest hit. I think about how many insects the handful of birds I just saw ate up in a matter of minutes. Are we facing not only a Silent Spring but also a Fatal Fall, in which caterpillars, with no warblers and kinglets to keep them in check, overrun the trees, devouring the leaves before they have a chance to feed the tree, let along turn gold-orange-red and drop to the ground?

Goodbye Winter

The last bits of snow have finally almost melted from our yard and woods and April showers are doing their damndest to bring on May flowers (at least I hope that's what all this rain is about). But before we let winter go, there are two last things I haven't had a chance to tell you about. First is this barred owl, who made a brief visit to our house on an afternoon when I happened to be home (I think there was a sick kid or a kid with an appointment or something), and I was able to catch one photo out my bedroom window before it flew off (admittedly because of the sound the window made when I tried to open it). It's just too beautiful not to share.

Secondly, there's this hat. I told you recently about being knitting blocked and unblocking by finishing a lacy gray cashmere hat.

Once the blockage was cleared, the new knitting began, first with this hat made from yarn I bought last June at the Fiber Frolic and a pattern that was free on Ravelry. I was surprised at how quickly it knitted up—after the two-year hat—and I love the way the variegated yarn turned out. It fits well, snug and stretchy, and with spring's slow approach I'm still wearing it. Rav notes here, for what they're worth (I mislaid the yarn label, so I can't remember what it's called…bramble something maybe?… but at least the pattern link is there).

Weekend Things ~ Wonderful Life, Bird Count, Hanukkah

We had one of those weekends where everything was happening at once.

M played Bert the Cop in It's a Wonderful Life. I was able to catch two of the four performances, and they were great (don't you love high school plays?). Here he is with George and Ernie, checking out Violet's backside as she struts away across the stage:



Saturday, C and I and E and Z did the Christmas Bird Count. This is the third year in a row and the fourth year overall that we've had the same route in our area. The first time was many years BC (before children), and we both swear we saw snow buntings that year, but we haven't seen them since.

If you want to tag along in spirit, you can watch the video C made of our count:

Sunday, I helped out M's French trip with a bottle drive (lucky kid was at work and didn't have to help me) and then took him Christmas shopping after he got out of work. In the evening, friends came over for our traditional Hanukkah dinner of latkes, gingered beets, and homemade apple sauce. Per tradition, C made a Yule Log Menorah. I think this is the best one yet. Usually the menorah-yule-log gets tossed in the wood stove, but this year C threatened to hide this one and just pretend he made it new next year. I'm okay with that.

They didn't have gelt at the store where I usually buy it, so the kids made do with square chocolates in shiny wrappers. The change of shape didn't seem to slow down their dreidel playing (or chocolate eating) at all, and when the chocolates were gone, they played with nuts.



To infuse an educational element into our festivities, we watched The Rugrats Chanukkah special. It was silly but surprisingly informative and the big kids didn't complain about watching a cartoon.

Wild Wednesday ~ Small Wonders

There is so much going on in the natural world this time of year it's hard to take it all in. Birds! Flowers! Frogs! Bugs! I don't even know where to begin. Here's a smattering of small phenomena I came across the other morning. I stepped out on the front step and saw the dismembered remains of a June bug. Who perched on my porch and snacked on this beetle? My extensive research (googling "what eats june bugs?") turned up a lot of critters that dine on the grubs, but no mention of beetle-eaters. Any ideas?

The bluets (Houstonia caerulea) are still flowering here and there on the lawn. These are one of the first wildflowers to come out in spring and it's nice to see them still going strong (reigns in that "summer's going by too fast" sensation a bit).

E left his flip-flops in the driveway after we got home from camping and this nursery web spider (Pisaurina mira) thought the bottom of one was a dandy place to sun itself.

I've seen a few dragonflies here and there (more every day), but I've been stuck in bird mode—not yet in odonata mode. Time to dig out the net and the field guides and refresh my id skills. A few very cooperative specimens stopped to pose for a picture. This one I think is a stream cruiser (Didymops transversa).

I'm thinking this one is a lancet clubtail (Gomphus exilis).

And this one I'm pretty sure is delta-spotted spiketail (Cordulegaster diastatops).

And finally, Z discovered a robin's nest tucked in the kiwi vine that grows over our deck rail. Mama robin wasn't home when I poked my camera in to snap a shot, and I hope she returned soon after. It will be fun to witness little robins grow up right outside our back door.

What small wonders have you been noticing lately?

Wild Wednesday ~ Birds!

After getting a bit of a late start bird-watching this spring (I was still in winter-torpor mode through most of April), I went on a few walks with our local birding club and then went out in earnest around our property, heading out at least once, sometimes twice every day.

Yellow-rumped warbler

Without wishing to minimize the very real skills of my professional birding friends, I think a lot of success in bird-watching comes from being in the right place at the right time.

Rose-breasted grossbeak

And I've been very lucky that birds like our property and that I'm home to check on their activities on a daily basis.

Baltimore oriole

This least flycatcher, too, was lucky I was home yesterday when he flew into the window on our sunroom door. He lay on his back, stunned, and I brought him in the house and set up a little grass nest for him. After a couple of hours, he seemed to have recovered sufficiently and I set him on the kiwi vine on the deck. He sat their a few minutes before disappearing in the moment I looked away.






And speaking of flycatchers, while I was tending to the least, which is our smallest flycatcher, a great-crested flycatcher, which is one of our largest, arrived to claim territory in the trees around our house. It's a bird I need to relearn every spring, though I think now that I've spent an afternoon listening to him whoop and trill, I'll have it down pat.



What's wild in your neck of the woods this week?

Wild Wednesday ~ Sea Bird Cruise

On Sunday I joined some fellow Maine Master Naturalists and other bird watchers on a cruise around Casco Bay in search of ducks, gulls, and other birds. Our trip organizer predicted it to be "a real corker of a day," and it was, with mostly sunny skies, calm seas, and balmy air (temps hit 55 degrees on the mainland!)—perfect winter bird-watching weather.

The first and last bird we saw was a house sparrow (Paser domesticus), who made itself at home inside the ferry terminal, living off dropped crumbs from Standard Co. baked goods, and, when it wanted a bit of fresh air, skimming over the tops of passengers' heads on their way in or out of the terminal. Once out on the water, our sightings became a little bit more exotic. The bird we saw in greatest abundance was the long-tailed duck (Clangula hyemalis). The males of this smallish species (around 16.5 inches long) have a distinctive white head and, as the name suggests, long tail, and a black-and-white striped appearance when flying. We observed several rafts of 10-20 of these birds.




Buffleheads (Bucephala albeola) also appeared in large numbers (35 at official count). The bufflehead is a petit duck (13.5 inches), and the breeding male of this species displays a very white breast and underside with a large white patch on its head.



The most interesting, and new to me bird we saw was the surf scoter (Melanitta perspicallata), of which we saw several. The male surf scoter is black with a bright white spot on the back of its head and a bulging, orange-white-and-black bill. It looks like it borrowed a puffin's make-up kit, and I've decided to nickname it the puffin duck. We also spied a few black scoters (Melamitta nigra), which are much less distinctive than their surf cousins, with a mere bump on the plain yellow bill and no white spot on the back of the head.



Several solo loons, of both the common (Gavia immer) and red-throated (Gavia stellata) varieties, popped up alongside the boat as we puttered among Casco Bay's islands. Both species still wore their muted winter plumage, although some of the common loons appeared to be working on their breeding season checker-board backs. The red-throated loon is smaller than the common, but that is not always easy to detect when they're not next to each other. The best way we found to tell them apart was that the red-throated has a more slender bill, which it holds up above horizontal. The red-throated loon's neck also appeared longer and more slender than the common loon's, and some passengers remarked that it had an almost cormorant-like appearance.

Other waterfowl we saw included: Canada Goose (Branta canadensis), American Black Duck (Anas rubripes), Mallard (Anas platyrhynchos), Common Eider (Somateria mollissima), Common Goldeneye (Bucephala clangula), and Red-breasted Merganser (Mergus serrator).



We also saw several members of three species of gull—Ring-billed (Larus delawarensis), Herring (Larua argentatus), and Great Black-backed (Larus marinus)— and a couple Black Guillemots (Cepphus grylle).



For raptors, the group got a great view of a red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) sailing over one of the islands, and passengers also reported sightings of a Bald Eagle (Haliacetus leucocephalus) and a Peregrine Falcon (Falco peregrinus).

Finally, while nearing the various islands, birders caught sight or sound of a handful of passerines, in addition to the above-mentioned house sparrow: Rock Dove/Feral Pigeon (Columba livia), Mourning Dove (Zinaida macroura), Blue Jay (Cyanocitta cristata), American Crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos), Black-capped Chickadee (Poecile atricapillus), American Robin (Turdus migratorius), and Northern Cardinal (Cardinalis cardinalis).

I was, I admit, reluctant at first to spend three hours on the ocean in February looking at birds, but I've made it my mission this month to try new things and say "yes" to opportunities, and this one turned out great (though I might be singing—or quacking—a different tune if it had been 15 degrees, not 55)!

Wild Wednesday ~ Moment(s) of Wonder ~ Owl and Ducks

In which I share a Moment of Wonder recorded in my nature journal over the previous week.

This week, I have two moments to share with you, because they were both pretty great and I just couldn't decide.

My niece was visiting from Boston for the weekend, and on Sunday afternoon, we'd all just returned from ice skating on the pond down the road and had settled down for a movie and butterscotch popcorn. The sun was starting to set in streaks of lemon and raspberry, and as I looked out the window at the scene, a large bird flew across my field of vision. From the size of its head, I knew it was an owl. Z spied the tree it had landed in and my niece and I pulled on boots and trekked down the driveway to see if we could get a closer look. As we neared the tree it was in, I thought I detected "ears"—or the tufts of feathers on the head that would indicate it was a great-horned owl. A little closer and it flew off, across our neighbor's field, ears fully visible. We walked partway across the field before it took off again.



This sighting was extra-cool for two reasons: We often hear great-horned owls calling around our house, but we've never seen one before; usually we see barred owls. And, every time my niece visits, we have a neat wildlife sighting. One time it was a close encounter with a porcupine, the other time it was a flying squirrel on our bird feeder. She's wildlife good luck!

The second moment happened yesterday. E and I went ice skating one last time before the snow when he got home from school yesterday. While I ooch my way in a circle around the ice as if I'm at an actual ice rink with a designated direction of travel, he scoots all over the pond and is up and down and up and down, sliding on his knees and butt as often as his skates. At one point, he was lying on his back and said, "Look up there."



A flock of 50-60 birds was flying overhead in a perfect V formation. They were totally silent, so not geese (also, they didn't appear to have long necks), and appeared completely black, so not gulls (I'm not sure if gulls practice such disciplined V-flying). Some kind of duck, I assume. Where did they come from and where were they going? And who can look at a V of flying birds and not comprehend that mutualism and cooperation are inherent traits in nature, and therefore should also be part of human society?

Wild Wednesday ~ Moment of Wonder ~ Winter Birds

I made my last nature journal entry on November 8. I had planned to start keeping a tally of the birds that come to our feeder, which I can see very well from the couch where I do most of my writing. But after that, I was too depressed to bother (though I have continued to fill the feeders).

I've thought now and then about taking out my journal, but I've either been too busy or too distracted, or just not in the mood. I'm not actively researching any particular topic of nature study right now, for which I would want the support and reinforcement of keeping a journal, and most of my outside time these days is spent in robotic laps up and down the driveway, trying to get those 10,000 steps.

And then the other day I remembered that Clare Walker Leslie, in her book Drawn to Nature, describes a practice she began when her mother was dying, of finding, and drawing a "daily exceptional image," which brought a moment of peace and light into her life, a connection with nature that helped assuage her grief. I took up this practice, both in sketches in my journal and an occasional wordless photo on this blog, several years ago and called it "Moment of Wonder." I've decided to return to this practice, going out into the woods daily, with my journal instead of my camera, open to what the world has to show me. Each Wednesday I'll share one of these moments with you.

Today, in my first Moment of Wonder walk of 2017, I came upon a small group of chickadees and psssshhh-ed them in. About six little black-caps swooped in to see what I was up to, along with an even smaller red-breasted nuthatch, and, tiniest of all, a quick glimpse of a golden-crowned kinglet. I love those tiny guys and it was a wonderful treat to see one, even if only for a fleeting moment. I wonder, though, if kinglets hang out with chickadees, why don't we ever see them at the feeder?

Wild Wednesday ~ Snow and Christmas Bird Count

We're having one of those winters—snow, rain, snow, rain, snow.

The kind where going outside is like stepping onto an ice skating rink and the wet, heavy snow-rain-ice comes thundering off of the metal roof like a freight train in the middle of the night.

It's the sort of winter where you just have to get outside while the getting's good,

And it's not that good that often.

But one day last week, after some snow-rain-snow, we had a brief winter-wonderland window,

Just enough to make everything frosty and magical (but not enough to require skis or snowshoes). 

It's mostly turned to slush by now, but it's that kind of winter.

In other wild news, last Saturday we participated in the Christmas Bird Count again,  a day where we have to do nothing but drive around a set route, looking for birds, which is a lot more fun than it sounds.

We saw a good number of birds—lots of the usual suspects, like blue jays and crows, starlings and chickadees. The most exciting sightings were two bald eagles in a  tree (one pictured above), a pileated woodpecker right next to the car (below), and a red-bellied woodpecker, a life first for both C and me (of which I did not get a picture).



To learn more about the Christmas Bird Count, go here. If you're at all into birds, I encourage you to look into joining a count in your area next winter. It's lots of fun and there are always opportunities for novices to hook up with more experienced birders. To see more about our bird count day, check out C's vlog post about the bird count here.

Wild Wednesday ~ Cooper's Hawk

I took last Thursday off to prepare the house for weekend guests, but it was such a nice day, I found it hard to stay inside cleaning. So midmorning, I headed out for a little stroll. As I entered the woods, I saw a small bird fly into a brush pile. I raised my binoculars to see if I could follow it, when into my view from landed this Cooper's hawk, not 20 feet away from me.

I watched it for a while as it hopped around on the brush pile, no doubt searching for the same little bird I had tried to see. After some time, I shifted my weight and startled the bird off to a tree across a clearing (it's always the human that breaks the spell, isn't it). I ran back to the house, grabbed my camera and big lens and hurried back to the woods, where I found the bird still on its branch. 

So engrossed was I in taking pictures, I didn't notice a chirping sound in the trees off to my right, but as I was looking down at the camera to see I got exposure right when a flutterment and a scufflement arose in the tree where the chirping had been and this yellow warbler fluttered into a tree ahead of me. That was two misses for the Cooper's, who I was sure was in the brush off to the right, but could not find for the life of me. It's so well-camoflaged with those gray and brown feathers that I never would have seen it the first time if it hadn't flown into my view.

On my way back to the house, I spied the first painted turtles that I've seen this season, basking as happily in the sun as I was (blissfully unaware that snow would come again this week!).

Wild Wednesday ~ Signs of Spring

Spring this year has been coming in fits and starts. Twice my crocus came up (first yellow, then purple) only to be flattened by cold snaps before I had a chance to enjoy them (but not before I took their picture). Daffodils and one hyacinth are blooming now in one spot near a stone wall, but it's in a place I hardly ever go so I forget about them!

In just the last few days the grass has really made an effort at turning green, but a couple weeks ago, little patches of clover like this one were all the green to be found.

Meanwhile, the trees (and shrubs) have been getting busy either flowering or budding out. Among the first were the speckled alder (Alnus incana) catkins. The long, caterpillar-like ones are the male catkins (flowers), the round pine-coney ones are last year's female catkins, and the tiny, knobs that you can't really see in the picture are this year's female catkins. A couple of weeks ago, you could shake an alder branch and see orange clouds of pollen billow away. Today when I shook a branch, all the male catkins fell off. Their work is done and now it's up to the pollinated female ones to incubate their seeds.

One of the first trees to flower is the quaking aspen (Populus tremuloides). Fuzzy little catkins worm out of resinous bud scales early in the spring. These mostly grow at the very tops of the trees and I took out my zoom lens to get some pictures (and to get some practice using that lens).

 Another early budder is the red maple (Acer rubrum), so-named because of its red buds.

And, of course, the pussy willows (Salix spp.). I almost didn't catch these before they'd fully unfurled from their single bud scale.

One of the most exciting buds to see are the lilacs, my favorite flower. Ours have been very slow to bloom since I planted them (14 years ago!!) and are a little stingy with flowers (I think they might not get enough sun), but I always hold out hope for a profusion of blossoms.

We saw these little flowers on one of our hikes this weekend: beaked hazelnut (Corylus cornuta).

Here's one of last year's fruits that give this shrub its name.

Another exciting site we've had this spring is bald eagles. We've seen a pair or more on several occasions, flying right above our house. We're hoping that they are getting ready to nest down by our river and that we'll see more of them over the summer.