Saturday morning I headed out to Grass Lake.  The local Sandhill Cranes had been spotted several times recently engaging in courtship behaviour — unexpected for this time of year, I would think, but having never witnessed the famed crane dance I was only too eager to take advantage of their out-of-season amourousness.

The cranes were not visible when I arrived, so I took a stroll down Shouldice Road to see what I could stir up.  The fields had been cut since my last visit, and there was no sign of the Bobolinks, or Meadowlarks, or even the Savannah Sparrows.  But as I reached the end of the road I caught the weak, insect-like song of a Grasshopper Sparrow (one of Grass Lake’s specialties).  He was quite caught up in his own performance, fluttering one wing or the other continuously as he threw back his head, thrust out his chest, and let loose with a disappointingly frail and pitiful buzz.

Grasshopper Sparrows are one of the more cryptic members of an already secretive clan.  While most birds will pop up to a nearby high perch when flushed, this species would rather drop to the ground and scuttle off unseen.  They are also rather particular about their desired breeding habitat, and so it’s not often that I encounter them here in southern Ontario.  I’ve been birding long enough that, with most of the species I come across, a quick first impression is enough to identify the bird without tallying field marks.  With sparrows, however, this method only seems to get me into trouble.  A singing bird is much easier to identify conclusively, and I took the opportunity to make a few careful field notes to help out with my more ambiguous future encounters.