The song of the Bobolink is both strange and delightful, a percussive mix of clinks and warblings heard on warm summer days above unmowed fields. Even his latin name, Dolichonyx oryzivorus, sounds like a phrase from the bubbly babbling if this charismatic blackbird. A few weekends ago I returned to Grass Lake for another session with the birds, and captured some video of a diplay flight while playing with the new camera — if you listen closely, you can hear those jumbled notes above the wind and the whirr of the autofocus:
Bobolinks in this area are largely dependent on farmland, particularly areas of hay or stubble where they can build their ground nests. They are area-sensitive birds, meaning that densities decrease with the size of available grassland (a large field will have a higher density of Bobolinks than a small one). Urban sprawl and the steady loss and abandonment of agricultural land has reduced the birds’ habitat, and as such their population has been in decline since the 1940s. Another factor has been changes in agricultural practices, with hay fields being cut earlier and more frequently throughout the growing season.
While I was watching the Bobolinks, a farm tractor pulled into the alfalfa field behind me and began mowing. Bobolinks tend not to nest in alfalfa, and by mid-June I would expect that most species’ first broods would have already fledged, but I’ve no doubt that at least a few nests fell under the blades that day. I certainly don’t hold anything against the farmers — waiting until the breeding season is over would jeopardize the second harvest, which in turn affects their livelihood. It’s an unfortunate situation, and it remains to be seen whether Bobolink populations will continue to decline. I certainly hope that their odd, joyful song never disappears from the region.
Saturday was cloudy and drizzly for most of the day, but as the sky began to break up a bit in the afternoon, I took the opportunity to pay the Cooper’s Hawks at the Guelph Lake Nature Centre another visit. It had been three weeks since I’d last been by, and I found the female still patiently brooding up in their willow tree nest.
The hen still bears the fierce yellow eyes and streaky brown feathers of a juvenile. Since Cooper’s Hawks obtain their adult feathers in their second year, this makes her one of last year’s chicks. It’s uncommon for coops to nest in their first year, although it does happen, and typically they will nest a little later and lay smaller clutches than older birds.
I have yet to see the male during either of my visits, but I’m sure that will change once the young hatch. I’m hopeful that the pair will remain tolerant of human intrusion, and not only because I would like to continue to visit without disturbance. The nest is in the immediate vicinity of the nature centre, which acts primarily as a children’s educational resource (while I was there, a group of kids were noisily enjoying a campfire roast, though the hen did not seem too alarmed by their screaming and chattering). The hawks will be subject to a lot of human traffic this summer — hopefully the differing interests of both the birds and the visitors will not cause conflict.
Long-eared Owls are tough birds to find to begin with, and owlets doubly so. So we local birders were delighted to discover that a group of four LEO chicks have been hanging around Starkey Hill Trail, often snoozing only a few feet above the heads of oblivious hikers.
Despite being so close, I didn’t have the opportunity to drop by over the weekend, but headed over straight from work Monday night. Perfect timing, as it turned out: other birders had been searching up and down the trail for hours with no sign of the owls, and they had only just become active as I arrived. Clumsily they clambered up branches and flapped from tree to tree, heads bobbing and wobbling as they attempted to judge the distance to the next perch.
Eventually they quieted down again, and two of the owlets settled in a pine directly beside the trail for a nap. Closing their eyes, their fuzzy down served to obliterate their owlish faces (although the local flickers and jays were not at all fooled).
I returned again on Tuesday. This time the owls were nowhere to be seen or heard, and after nearly an hour and a half of waiting around I was quite ready to throw in the towel. No sooner did I gather up my things and start back down the trail did a familiar squeaky call ring out from the trees. There they are! I followed the sound down a hill and spotted a few whitewashed saplings below a large pine. A flapping of wings revealed one of the owlets as it dropped down to the ground, where it was soon joined by two of the others. They milled about a rotting log, repeatedly climbing up and pouncing down on whatever it was on the forest floor that had caught their interest. Eventually they grew bored of their game, and noisily crashed, flapped and clawed their way up into the trees again. I suppose their owlish stealth will take some time to develop.
A family of Red-tailed Hawks have taken up residence on the roof of Central Church in Cambridge. In consideration of the birds, the church has postponed their scheduled roof replacement and abstained from the ringing of the chimes until the young have fledged. Two of the four young were in the nest when I dropped by after work on Friday, and their mother was busy tearing up what was left of a squirrel to feed her large offspring.
Only one of the juveniles had yet to be observed to take its first flight. Red-tails fledge at around six weeks of age, although it will be be another month or two before they are capable of hunting for themselves. They are an adaptable species, one of the few predators to have found a niche in our urban landscape. Cities have their own dangers, however, and the newly fledged young are at considerable risk from traffic and large structures while they find their wings.
I returned on Saturday for another session with the hawks, but the nest was now empty. A large number of people were gathered along the surrounding streets for a passing parade, and I spotted two of the young watching the fuss from a nearby rooftop.
While on my way to Grass Lake early yesterday morning, I came across this Cedar Waxwing lying in the middle of the road. The back of the bird was a bit smashed up, but I keep plastic baggies and a box of latex gloves in my vehicle for such occasions (nestled beside the jar of Vaseline I use as a sealant for my car’s leaky gas cap — I forsee a rather awkward conversation if the authorities ever find the need to pull me over and search my trunk). I’ve never held a waxwing before, and I don’t think I’ve ever realized just how tiny they are. It’s always tough to gauge the size of a bird through the bins, and I routinely overestimate them. I still recall the shock of scoping a Least Sandpiper foraging next to a Song Sparrow while out birding several years ago, and realizing that the sparrow was bigger!
As I pulled into the next sideroad to turn my vehicle around and retrieve the waxwing, I happened to drive up next to another fallen bird. A juvenile American Robin this time, still sporting the yellow flanges of a recent fledgling on either side of his bill. It’s not often that I get a close-up look at a fledged robin, as they are generally shyer than the adults, acting in accordance with their thrush nature. They even wear the dappled spots of other closely related thrushes, although these are lost when they moult into their adult plumage.
I hear the note of a bobolink concealed in the top of an apple tree behind me. [...] He is just touching the strings of his theorbo, his glassichord, his water organ, and one or two notes globe themselves and fall in liquid bubbles from his teeming throat. It is as if he touched his harp within a vase of liquid melody, and when he lifted it out, the notes fell like bubbles from the trembling strings. Methinks they are the most liquidly sweet and melodious sounds I ever heard. – Henry David Thoreau
Off to North Dumfries this morning for grassland species. Along Shouldice Road, Savannah Sparrows seemed to be on every fencepost, with a few Grasshopper Sparrows hidden among them. Bobolinks were also numerous, perched on tussocks of grass or hovering overhead in full song. After a bit of waiting I was even able to locate the Sandhill Cranes, although they were rather distant. Not surprising; they are, after all, my nemesis bird.
Cranes carry themselves in quite a different manner than the equally long-necked herons. Whereas the latter will wade about with necks held in a graceful, angular s-curve, cranes keep their heads stiffly aloft, like a Brontosaurus from the pages of an old grade-school dinosaur book. Fitting, perhaps, that they should evoke such an image: Sandhills are one of the oldest extant bird species on the planet.
