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| Great Blue Heron |
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| Pine Warbler and Eastern Phoebe |
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| Killdeer |
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| Gray Catbird |
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| Fish Crow |
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| Wood Duck - drake and hen |
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| Dusky Grouse |
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| Dusky Grouse |
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| Killdeer |
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| American Avocet |
Killdeer ...
Common Yellowthroat (female) ...
Gray Catbird (recent fledgling) ...
Good birding!
Last week a single, matter-of-fact report got me thinking about a common shorebird that most of us take for granted, and shouldn’t. It is easily identified, easily heard, can be seen anywhere in North America except the far north. It likes open country, lake shores, rivers, plowed fields, pastures, large lawns, and gravel parking lots. The report: a single Killdeer was observed running across the snow at the country club.The Killdeer is a member of the Plover family and is most closely related to small plovers such as the common Semipalmated Plover and the endangered Piping Plover. All belong to the Genus, Charadius, which derives from a Greek word meaning “gully.” The reference is to the nest of the Killdeer and its close relatives. Generally the Killdeer makes a tiny hollow (“gully”) for its eggs, perhaps with a few chips of stone or woods, or weed stalks placed around it. There is no great time, expense, effort, or creativity put into the nest. The Killdeer nests that I have seen required some imagination in order to claim that the Killdeer had built it; the building was minimal at best.
Last year I saw several nesting Killdeer in a gravel parking area at a ski area. It has been suggested that nesting in such an open area gives the Killdeer an extended view so that it can quickly react to an intruder or potential danger. When any perceived threat appears, the Killdeer immediately begins its defensive maneuvers to protect its eggs or its young.
I remember one time walking through a farmer’s pasture in mid-May when I heard loud, shrill “kill-dee, kill-dee, kill-dee.” The panicked distress call went on and on, and drew my attention. There was a Killdeer, orange tail spread, limping along with an injured wing. Had I been a big, enthusiastic bird-dog, I would have gone bounding after the poor distressed bird, delighted that I could grab it so easily and proudly present it to my master. And I would have ended up with a great big mouthful of nothing. The broken wing and the shrill distressed “kill-dee, kill-dee, kill-dee” is just an act, designed to draw away the gullible intruder.
But I wasn’t a big, gullible dog, and I was wise to the Killdeer. I watched it limping off in one direction. To provide some reassurance to the poor Killdeer, I followed it for a few paces. But then I turned around and saw four downy young Killdeer, just a few days out of the egg. They scurried through the grass into cover, while their other parent flew about, screaming and providing additional distraction from the young.
Meanwhile, the faux-injured bird kept itself safe; its injured wing healed miraculously, and it flew off well before I could have become a real threat or the most rambunctious bird-dog could have made a grab.
The Killdeer employs different defensive tactics in different circumstances. Bent’s Life History reports an observer who noticed that a flock of driven goats divided in the middle of a field: “I walked up to the place expecting to find a rattlesnake, and found instead a killdeer standing over her eggs with upspread wings and scolding vigorously.”
Another observer watched a Killdeer family along the shore of a pond. Shorebirds were abundant around the pond except in the vicinity of the parent killdeer: “The parent was extremely belligerent, and I watched it attack other killdeers, yellowlegs, spotted sandpipers, soras, and song sparrows that happened to wander in the vicinity. All birds seemed glad to leave the vicinity.”
Much of the Killdeer’s defensive pugnacity is vocal, but its oft repeated “kill-dee, kill-dee, kill-dee” is not limited to times of danger, though danger makes the cry more strident. The Killdeer is the noisy plover, as one writer calls it in English and as science names it in Latin. Charadius vociferus scarcely needs translation; the Killdeer is vociferous - loud, clamorous, noisy. Often I hear the Killdeer before I see it. It calls when it takes flight. It calls when it is in flight. It calls whenever it feels in the mood, which is often.
The Killdeer seen last week on top of the snow is not unusual. It is an early migrant. Birds begin their northward journeys when the amount of daylight and their internal clocks say it is time to go. These triggers to movement do not necessarily coincide with propitious weather.
I remember a few years ago when we also had deep snows. The fields around the water treatment plant on Route 30 had a few bare patches and along the highway berm the ground was clear. But most of the pastures were still covered with snow. Dozens of killdeer were concentrated along the bare roadside and the small areas free from snow, while many also worked their way along the top of the snow. They all moved in classic plover fashion - walk, halt, stop-and-pick, walk, halt, stop-and-pick, their movements abrupt and jerky.
The Killdeer is so widespread and so common that it is easy for birders to be dismissive: “Oh, it’s just a Killdeer” - then hurry on to look for something “good.” There is nothing difficult about identifying the Killdeer. It is distinctive and unmistakable. Some birders have thick masochistic streaks; they are not truly happy unless they are painfully trying to make a difficult identification, and the Killdeer doesn’t even have any subspecies to challenge them.
But I find the Killdeer to be a joyful bird, one that is always a pleasure to see. It is handsome, active, often entertaining. It is one of the easier birds to identify in flight or by its call.
And the Killdeer can become quite comfortable around people. Last April, we visited friends in North Carolina. Near the development’s community center they showed us where a Killdeer was nesting on a strip of lawn between the roadway and parking lot. Residents had placed a rope barrier around the nest to protect it. The Killdeer was quite comfortable with passing walkers who stopped to look at its nursery. When I approached the nest, the parent spread its tail in minor distress, and I backed off. But later, when it went for a short walk, I was able to approach slowly and see that three of the four eggs had recently hatched; one chick was still wet after breaking from the shell.
The reports of returning migrants are beginning to pile up. Each day another bird is added to the list, and the promise of Spring grows more certain: red-wings and grackles, robins and Song Sparrows, bluebirds and phoebes - and all kinds of ducks. Then there are the residents showing signs of Spring as they begin courtship and look for nesting sites. The crows are noisy; so are the ravens. Starling flocks are dispersing. The single Downy Woodpeckers which came to the suet through the winter are now coming in a pair. Mourning Doves are cooing to one another. Winter calls are giving way to songs. Chickadees sing “peee ... weee.” The “peter, peter, peter” of the titmice greets the first light. From a pine tree Prince Cardinal whistles his song, and from atop a bare cherry tree a Carolina Wren warbles his virtues.
And then there is the “kill-dee, kill-dee, kill-dee”- or perhaps - “dee dee dee dee-ee kildee dee-ee” - those are good sounds. One of the songs of Spring!
Reader, suppose yourself wandering over some extensive prairie, far beyond the western shores of the Mississippi. While your wearied limbs and drooping spirits remind you of the necessity of repose and food, you see the moon's silvery rays glitter on the dews that have already clothed the tall grass around you. Your footsteps, be they ever so light, strike the ear of the watchful Kildeer, who, with a velocity scarcely surpassed by that of any other bird, comes up, and is now passing and repassing swiftly around you. His clear notes indicate his alarm, and seem to demand why you are there. To see him is now impossible, for a cloud has shrouded the moon; but on your left and right, before and behind, his continued vociferations intimate how glad he would be to see you depart from his beloved hunting-grounds. Nay, be not surprised if he should follow you until his eyes, meeting the glaring light of a woodsman traveller, he will wheel off and bid you adieu.Last weekend’s winter storm notwithstanding, March is the month of Spring’s return. As the dark snow clouds thickened, the change of the seasons was everywhere. Even non-birders will have seen the signs - the curling trails of smoke and rising clouds of vapor from sugar shacks - automobiles thickly crusted with mud - snatched conversations about impassable dirt roads. A mid-March snow storm is a brief hiatus in the calendar’s turn, a temporary pause. Spring is coming ... and the signs are everywhere.
Last Friday, before the snows began, I went out to look at Spring. I gave myself an edge by traveling to Vermont’s tropics - Vernon. In every bare pasture and fallow field, robins were hurrying about, busy feeding. With the robins were the Red-winged Blackbirds ... all males, feeding, yes, but often finding time to proclaim from a tree top their “conk-a-ree” while flashing their red epaulets. They come north before the females to claim their territory.
The blackbirds are one of the surest signs of Spring, and the red-wings are not the only blackbird on the move. On my pre-snow storm Spring survey, dove-sized blackbirds with long keel-shaped tails flew across the road and perched in trees - Common Grackles.
Other smaller, nondescript blackbirds were among the flocks of robins and red-wings feeding in the fields. When these blackbirds were closer to the road or when I paused to scan with my binoculars, I could see the brown heads of the cowbirds. Among North America’s native species, most birders loath the Brown-headed Cowbird; it is a brood parasite, dropping its eggs indiscriminately in the nests of smaller songbirds like the colorful warblers, or songster thrushes, seriously threatening the reproductive success of its hosts. But in March, even the cowbird’s return is noted, because it is a sign of spring.
For the last couple of months, I have known the birds coming to my feeders. When I did my backyard feeder count in mid-February, I knew I would have thirty juncos, twenty jays, twelve chickadees, six titmice, eight doves, six pigeons, four downies, and a pair each of cardinals, nuthatches, Hairy Woodpeckers, and Tree Sparrows.
Last Saturday, with the deepest snow cover of the winter and a four foot barrier built by avalanching roof snow to surmount in order to reach the feeders, signs and sounds of Spring abounded. Red-wings joined the juncos and jays to feed on the seed which I scattered across the top of the new snow. Grackles joined doves on the bulk feeder. Song sparrows scratched beside the Tree Sparrows and squabbled about who was going to eat that seed. And when I stepped outside, I heard the “conk-a-ree” of the red-wing, the “cooooo” of the dove, the “peeer, peeer” of the titmouse, and the discordant songs of the starling. Spring!
Along with the singing of our wintering birds, the large flocks of robins and mixed blackbirds are the most obvious avian signs of Spring to most people. But the signs are everywhere, although you may have to go looking and be alert for them.
Vermont’s state bird is the Hermit Thrush. Considered by many to be the premier vocalist among our birds, its ethereal, flute-like song carries through our late-Spring and early-Summer woodlands. Unlike the other woodland thrushes, the Hermit Thrush winters in southern North America, sometimes as far north as southern Connecticut. It is the first thrush (not counting the robin and bluebird) to return to our neighborhoods. But during March, this premier songster is silent, moving quietly through woods and thickets. He’s still curious. When I’ve seen movement in a brushy tangle, I’ve sometimes been able to “phish” him into the open where his spotted breast and upright, rufous tail betray his identity.
As the ice goes out of our rivers and ponds and the waters open, waterfowl move north. On my pre-snow storm survey, I found a hundred Common Goldeneyes in the Connecticut River near Stebbins Island. Between dives, the drakes were doing their whip-lash display for the hens. I also saw a couple dozen Hooded Mergansers, although if I had wandered around the old beaver pond with my neighbor I would have seen, as he did, a pair of hoodies in a small pool; they were probably on an early reconnaissance for a hollow tree in a wetlands to use for nesting.
Where there is open water, there will soon be a kingfisher or two, rattling from tree branch perch to tree branch perch.
Shorebirds are returning. Two weeks ago friends in West Brattleboro heard the “peent” of the American Woodcock (yes, the woodcock is a shorebird). Secretive and nocturnal - both when it feeds and when it migrates - the woodcock starts to move north from its southern wintering range as early as January. Its migration peaks in March. We can be concerned for the earliest woodcocks to arrive in our woods, especially those caught in last week’s storm. They feed almost entirely by probing soft ground for earthworms. With a foot of new snow and refrozen ground, survival for the earliest arrivals is challenging.
Killdeer are also being reported, although we will not see (or hear) significant numbers until later in the month. I remember one recent winter’s end, when the spring thaw took a long time because of the depth of the snow pack. Only the road edges by the Retreat pastures were snow free, but there were dozens of killdeer working those snow free edges, and dozens more scurrying across the snow fields, as well as the ice on the West River. It is still early to expect to see killdeer in any numbers, but this noisy plover is likely to betray his presence at any time with his strident “keeldee” as he flies over head or dashes across a barren patch of ground - or snow covered pasture.
Humans are diurnal creatures. We have color vision because we are genetically intended to be active during the day and to sleep at night. But if your genes are screwy and you’re active at night, then listen for owls. The Spring breeding season begins as early as February for the Great-horned Owl, and for the Northern Saw-whet Owl and Barred Owl it is swinging into full activity. They are hooting, tooting and calling, seeking mates, defending territory, and preparing to nest.
It is hard to imagine why some birds would be incubating eggs in such (to us) foul weather, but it is undoubtedly timed to the emergence of food sources. With the melting of winter snows, chipmunks, mice, and voles emerge from their winter quarters, sometimes atop the remaining snow, or just beneath the matted, and now snow free, grasses. Many birds return. And all of life seems distracted with the advent of the breeding season. There will soon be much food available for the soon to hatch owlets.
So too for the eagles, whose nesting seems timed to coincide with the running of the shad and salmon. Last Friday the Vernon/Hinsdale eagles appeared to be incubating. Where early in the week they were observed moving sticks about their aerie - some last minute nest remodeling - with the approaching snow storm one was seated deep in the nest, a sign that an egg had been laid.
It’s Spring! Forget the snow. The signs of Spring are everywhere!
Photos: Top - Ring-necked Ducks near the Vernon Dam in March. Middle - Hermit Thrust returns early to Vermont woods.
