Pine Siskins - Vanguard of Winter Finches

Goldfinches in camouflage - that’s how one field guide describes the little brown jobs (LBJs) which have been visiting my feeders in large numbers the last few weeks. The Pine Siskin is almost identical in size and shape to the familiar American Goldfinch. The two species often flock together. From a few yards away, it is very easy to miss the Pine Siskin among the olive drab winter plumage of the goldfinch. A casual glance at the dark wings and wing bars make you think that there is only one species, not two. But then you notice that some of the birds in the flock are buffy and unstreaked on breast and back, and others are very streaked, and you realize that there are two different birds which are consuming your sunflower seeds in such quantity.

Or you may see sparrows and female finches busy on the ground around the feeders; these are the birds that define “little brown job” and are so confusing to many observers. But one of them is hoping on the ground in a way that suggests it is not comfortable scratching among the leaves. Or you notice that it is slimmer than the usually robust looking sparrows. It does not have any prominent head markings, and its beak is sharply pointed. When you finally get your binoculars on this LBJ you might notice that there is yellow along the edge of the wings and tail. You are looking at a Pine Siskin.

Pine Siskins are odd little birds. Forbush summarizes their behavior: “The Northern Pine Siskin is almost as erratic as the crossbills. During every month in the year small flocks wander about as if there were no such thing as a breeding season, and individuals may be seen occasionally in summer far south of their usual breeding-grounds. They may breed one year in a certain region and far away the next, and in migration or in winter they may visit a locality in great numbers in one year and pass it by the next.”

This year they are at my feeders in great numbers, often outnumbering the goldfinches. In my backyard, this is a banner year for the siskins. I have been doing an informal poll of other bird watchers to find out if they are also having large numbers of siskins. At best, they have answered, “A few.” More likely they tell me that one visited once, or a couple occasionally. So far in my polling, Pine Siskins are not being reported in unusual numbers, except in my backyard.

Looking back through my notes, I have managed to see the Pine Siskin every year, but in many of those years, the numbers have been very few. On the other hand, they occasionally hang in large numbers where I happen to be. There is no apparent predictability.

I remember one Spring listening to the finches singing in the trees around my home - jumbled, varied, twittering notes celebrated the melting snow and warming temperatures. Occasionally I scanned the trees and picked out a male American Goldfinch in his fresh yellow plumage. But more often I noticed that the twittering song was interrupted suddenly with a rising “zzshrreeeee,” - then the twittering resumed. Most of those singing finches that early Spring were siskins. Every Spring since, I have listened for the cheerful song that is suddenly interrupted, but have heard it only occasionally.

The American Goldfinch and the Pine Siskin are closely related. Both are classified in the Genus Carduelis, from the Latin for “thistle.” Thistle is presumed to be the favorite food of these birds, and both species have been filling the perches on the thistle feeder in my backyard. The siskins that cannot find a perch contentedly scarf the sunflower seeds in large quantity.

The thistle blooms late in the late summer, and this is sometimes used to explain why the goldfinch is one of the latest nesting bird. Generally, they do not begin to get serious about their breeding responsibilities until late June or early July. I remember years ago finding an occupied goldfinch nest in an apple tree in late September. Presumably the goldfinches postpone their nesting until their favorite food becomes available.

But life in nature is never quite that neat and simple. The Pine Siskin, also a “thistle bird,” begins its breeding season in late March or early April. For such a small bird, it builds a relatively large nest, lined with hair, fur, feathers, and other fine materials. It may be that this fine lining serves as insulation against the harsh weather still common in the northern latitude pine forests where the Pine Siskin nests. One study suggests that they feed their young mainly on aphids, and another study has shown that various insects figure prominently in their diet. This is only what would be expected, especially during the rearing of young with their heavy protein requirements. In nesting early, the siskins are relying on the insects which also emerge early in the year.

Pine Siskins wander widely in the pine forests of the north, and as a consequence, there is much about these birds that is still uncertain. Bent, in his 1968 Life History, is uncertain whether they double-brood. Thirty years later, Baicich and Harrison still can only say, “Possibly double-brooded.” Siskins follow their own time-table. I am quite sure that they understand when and where they breed, but science is still trying to puzzle it out.

This year I saw my first Pine Siskins on a mountain top in mid June. I don’t know where they were in their breeding cycle - at the end, or just beginning, or starting over again. That they were breeding on the mountain top, I am sure. They prefer the northern pine forest, and that habitat stretches south along our mountain tops.

Once breeding is concluded, the siskins move southward in a pattern that is completely unpredictable. In our neighborhood, southward may mean nothing more than moving from higher elevations to lower elevations. When the first siskins started showing up in my backyard in early August, they were probably the mountain top birds coming down to the valleys.

What about the siskins covering the thistle feeder perches now? When I reported this to another birder, his response was, “This could be a good finch year.” Every so often, the northern finches irrupt southward. Poor seed crops in northern Ontario have led some field ornithologists to predict that this will be an irruptive year. So my siskins may be the vanguard of the winder finches.

The Common Redpoll (also Genus Carduelis) is fairly predictable; it usually appears in the northeast every other year. The Pine Grosbeak is less predictable. It has not been reported on a Christmas Count for several years. Many feel it is due. And the crossbills - they are about as erratic as any of these finch family birds. A report of large numbers of siskins at backyard feeders is grasped by some as a harbinger of winter finch sightings to come. I know one birder who is already twitching at the possibility.

The Pine Siskins in my backyard may be a vanguard - or just an anomaly. We’ll see. Sometimes, good birding is defined by hope and anticipation. But I hope that winter birding this year will be defined by many winter finches. I hope that is what the Pine Siskins in my yard are anticipating. I hope.

Good birding.

Pine Siskins

Pine Siskins have irrupted in my backyard. For a couple of weeks, an estimated 20-30 siskins have been regular at the feeders, often outnumbering the goldfinches with which they seem to be flocking. I've only seen a scattering of reports about siskins elsewhere, but maybe (I hope) this is the first sign of a winter finches this year.

I couldn't find photos which suited this week's column, but decided to put up a couple anyway. Swamp Sparrow behaving like a wren - and a visitor to my new window feeder. Please don't miss the unillustrated column below.

Some Curiosities in Bird Names

Bird names are often curious. The rules of nomenclature say that once a bird has been named, it keeps that name, even if the name has no bearing on what is subsequently learned about the bird. That explains why, for example, the robin has never been renamed the reb-breasted thrush but remains the (American) robin, because it bears a similarity to the (Eurasian) robin which has a red breast. Or why the American Redstart does not have warbler in its name in some fashion, because it bears a superficial resemblance to European redstarts, all of which are in the thrush family.

A curious aspect about bird names is that many of the common birds which we know in the East are descriptive names, while many of the birds found in the West belong to someone; they are so and so’s bird.

Consider our eastern warblers. In the East we find the yellow, chestnut-sided, black and white, black-throated green, black-throated blue, blue-winged, cerulean, bay-breasted, and others. If not descriptive of the bird, the name may suggest their diet or where they are found: myrtle (now yellow-rumped), worm-eating, magnolia, and pine. By contrast, among the western warblers we find Virginia’s, Lucy’s, Townsend’s, Grace’s, MacGillivray’s, and Audubon’s (now lumped with the myrtle as the yellow-rumped).

The names of our eastern sparrow, all nondescript little brown birds, are descriptive. Chipping Sparrows chip, Song Sparrows sing, Field Sparrows are found in fields, Swamp Sparrows in swamps, White-throated Sparrows have white throats, and White-crowned Sparrows have white crowns. Go out West and you will find sparrows that also have descriptive names (sage, or rufous-crowned), but you will also find sparrows that “belong” to Botteri, Cassin, Brewer, Baird, Harris and Le Conte.

Not a single one of our local woodpeckers has a proper name in its name (downy, hairy, red-bellied, pileated, flicker, yellow-bellied sapsucker), but in the West you will find Lewis’s and Nuttall’s Woodpeckers and Williamson’s Sapsucker.

The Ruby-throated Hummingbird is the only regularly occurring hummingbird in the East; other species occasionally show up, especially in the Fall, but they are usually juveniles and are notoriously difficult to identify as a different species, even for many very experienced birders. In the West you can find many species of hummingbirds and most have names descriptive of their plumage. But among those western hummingbirds there is also Anna’s, Costa’s, and Allen’s.

In the East, many common birds have a slue of folk names, a situation which often caused confusion until the American Ornithological Union began imposing some order. I pick just a few by way of example. The Northern Flicker has been known as High-hole; Wake-up; Harrywicket, and Yellow Hammer. The Chipping Sparrow has been called Chip-bird and Hair-bird and is still referred to as Chippy. The Common Yellowthroat is still, and will continue to be, called the “Wichety-wichety,” and no amount of officialdom is likely to change that.

So why does the West have so many birds named for forgotten people? It goes back to the history of Europeans in North America. The Spanish came to the Western Hemisphere for gold; the French came for furs. The English came to stay. It was the early 1800s before curious naturalists began describing the flora and fauna of North America in any serious or systematic way. Alexander Wilson, considered the father of American ornithology, and John James Audubon, were self-taught artists and naturalists, often pursuing their interests in neglect of making a living. By the time they began their work, people of European descent, mostly English, had been living in the eastern states for two hundred years. They were clearing the forests, struggling with the native peoples they were displacing, contending with a far-away monarch, and creating a new form of government. In the course of making a living, they noticed the potato bird which ate the bugs in their garden (Rose-breasted Grosbeak). They scattered the rice-birds eating their rice with bird-shot (Bobolinks). They enjoyed partridge (Ruffed Grouse) and gobbler (Wild Turkey) on the dinner plate. And they listened to Stake-driver, Thunder-pumper, and Dunk-a-doo in the marshes (American Bittern). When the naturalists went to work describing the birds of the East, many of those birds were already very familiar. The naturalists provided some system and order.

At the beginning of the 1800s, President Jefferson pulled off the greatest land purchase in history, but had no idea what he had bought. The Lewis and Clark Expedition was the first of many organized excursions by the English-speaking Americans to discover what lay westward. These expeditions were all sent out with instructions to record the plants, animals, birds, geography, and people to be found in these new lands. Accompanying the expeditions were naturalists (albeit often self-trained naturalists) charged with fulfilling these instructions. Hundreds of new species were recorded and collected, and eventually found their way back to the East. This continued as the frontier pushed its way to the Pacific coast and exploratory expeditions gave way to permanent settlers. Western species were new to everyone. With no folk names, the naturalists were free to do the naming.

Modern science was still in its developmental stage in the early nineteenth century, but already it was well-established that the person who discovered a new species - that is, described a new species for science - had the right to name it, and the name would continue thereafter. It was not appropriate to name a species after oneself, but you could honor someone by giving that person’s name to a species you discovered. Audubon, for example, named a rare eastern warbler (non extinct) and sparrow after his South Carolina friend, Dr. John Bachman. Other Audubon friends and companions were honored in Harris’ Sparrow and Harlan’s Hawk (now a sub-species of the Red-tailed Hawk). It fell to others to honor the pioneers of American ornithology. Alexander Wilson fared quite well; his name is attached to a warbler, plover, snipe, and storm-petrel, and also to a genus of warbler. Audubon did not fare quite so well. An Atlantic shearwater is named for Audubon, and the western warbler which is now a sub-species of the Yellow-rumped Warbler. The western species called so and so’s, were discovered and described by various naturalists and named by them, often honoring someone.

Eastern species which are named for a person are typically unusual or rare species; they were not well known to the general population and therefore could be discovered and named (Kirkland’s Warbler, for example). In the East, birds bearing a place name, like Cape May, Tennessee, Connecticut or Nashville Warblers recall the place where they were first “discovered,” not where they live. The four warblers just named winter in the tropics and breed near or north of the Canadian border. They merely pass through their place names during migration. On the other hand, western birds named for a place are likely to be residents of the place, like California Thrasher, California Quail, and Arizona Woodpecker (previously known as Strickland’s Woodpecker).

I haven’t begun to exhaust this topic of bird names, but I have run out of space for this week. Good birding!

Nuthatches - Agile Acrobats on the Tree Trunk

Just when I think I have gotten a bird nicely figured out, I see one of its kind do something completely out of character. This time, it was the nuthatches, and specifically, the Red-breasted Nuthatch.

Nuthatches are stubby, stocky little birds with short tails; they have strong legs and feet, and long toes with sharp claws. These are all adaptations for life on a tree trunk, a niche they share with woodpeckers and the Brown Creeper. Their body style bears a superficial resemblance to these other arboreal species, but that is as close as their relationship comes - superficial. Nuthatches parted evolutionary company with the woodpeckers long ago. The somewhat similar traits in a similar habitat are the result of what scientists call “convergence.”

The woodpeckers and the creeper, supported by their stiff tail feathers, climb up a tree trunk. The nuthatches also climb up the tree trunk, but they are just as likely to climb down the tree trunk head first. The tree trunk, and the tree branches, are where the nuthatches earn their living. They forage for insects and assorted invertebrates in the bark crevices. Their short tail enables them to move as easily down as they do up. By contrast, the longer tail of the woodpeckers would get in their way if they tried to move downward.

Science has not been able to figure out why nuthatches climb down a tree. Research seems to suggest that it is more efficient to forage in the manner of the woodpeckers and creepers - fly to a low spot on the trunk and then move upward. Perhaps the nuthatches are able to see prey when they are moving down that the upward feeders miss.

The natural habitat of the nuthatches is mature forest. The White-breasted Nuthatch will make its home in the broken “forest” between river and farm field, or in a town or village, providing the “forest” has large trees. The Red-breasted Nuthatch prefers mature coniferous forests. With suitable habitat nearby, these nuthatches will often forage for seeds at bird feeders where sunflower seeds are their preferred choice.

Bent’s Life History calls the White-breasted Nuthatch droll, earnest, sedate, and lacking in a sense of humor. Adjectives applied to the Red-breasted include happy, jolly, quick and agile. I rather prefer “acrobatic clown” for the White-breasted; it perches on the feeder, upside down, with head extended at a right angle from its body, daring any chiropractor to set its spine straight. The smaller Red-breasted may be jolly, but it is also feisty, sometimes aggressive toward larger birds. “Irrepressible woodland gnome” is appropriate even when the Red-breasted ventures out of the woodlands and to our feeders.

That the nuthatches are feeder birds tells you that their diet is varied. They may be adapted to foraging on tree trunks for invertebrate protein, but vegetable matter in the form of nutrition rich seeds is prevalent in their diet. Seeds and small nuts give them their name, “nuthatch.” At our feeders, nuthatches are like chickadees and titmice; they grab a sunflower seed and fly off to crack it open. Chickadees and titmice hold the seed between their feet and pound it open with their bill. Nuthatches, by contrast, take a sunflower seed, fly to a tree, and jam the seed into a crevice. Then they pound it open with their bill to release the nutritious kernel.

Nuthatches have been finding food in this manner long before we started putting out bird feeders. We watch them forage from the warm comfort of our homes, which, you must admit, is a very indolent way to observe nature. When observation of nature required walking in the woods (or more likely - working, hunting, harvesting, and foraging), the nuthatch was frequently seen hacking open seeds or small nuts with its bill. Hence its name: nuthatch. “Nut” from its food - probably nothing so large as a hickory nut or walnut, but a small pod which contained seed ... and “hatch,” which is an earlier form of “hack,” from its practice of hacking a seed too large to swallow whole into small pieces.

This hatching requires certain physical adaptations similar to those of the woodpecker - a sturdy bill and muscle strength for pounding. This in turn allows most nuthatches worldwide (there are 25 species) to excavate a nest cavity. The Red-breasted Nuthatch excavates a cavity, and often smears sticky pitch around the entrance hole, probably to discourage other creatures from entering. Our White-breasted Nuthatch is an exception; it uses existing cavities.

Nuthatches are one of the few birds that use a tool. Some will hold a piece of bark and look for food by flaking off other pieces of bark.

So that summarizes the adaptation of the nuthatches to life on the trunks and branches of mature forest trees. These intelligent and agile little birds make their living by acrobatically gleaning invertebrates and gathering seeds and nuts from their arboreal home. They are not aerialists; they fly, awkwardly it often seems, from one food source to another.

A week ago, I was in a stand of pines on the edge of a coastal marsh looking for shorebirds. The tide was out, so the shorebirds had gone to the rich mud of the tidal estuary and I had to notice other things. What I noticed was a flycatcher sallying from the pines, making a quick circle over the marsh grasses, and returning to the pines. I had glimpsed a tail-wagging phoebe and assumed that the flycatching bird was a phoebe doing what it is designed to do. In the absence of shorebirds to watch, I decided a good look at a phoebe would be in order. I continued to watch the swooping flycatcher bird until I finally saw it return to an overhead branch. But the bird had no tail and instead of perching upright, it clung to the side of the branch. I thought I had missed the return of the flycatching phoebe. Everything about the bird I was looking at said Red-breasted Nuthatch, including the repeated, thin notes: “eeeen, eeeen, eeeen.” It stayed still long enough for me to focus my binoculars.

Then the Red-breasted Nuthatch flew out over the marsh grasses in a quick circle and returned to the pines. Over and over and over it sallied through swarms of insects. Once it alighted, and paused, so that I could see in its beak the insect which it had adeptly snatched in mid-air.

My first thought was - the Red-breasted is not adapted to flycatching. But then I realized that the most important adaptation for the Red-breasted, or any species, is the ability to adapt. The flycatching Red-breasted saw those swarms of rich protein over the grasses and exploited their availability. It did not care that it had not evolved as a flycatcher. Back on the branch, it clung acrobatically upside down while it ate its fly.

Good Birding!

Plum Island

A recent trip to Parker River NWR (Plum Island) near Newburyport, MA, on the coast produced Buff-breasted Sandpiper, American Golden Plover, Baird's Sandpiper, and Stilt Sandpiper, all relatively rare, and among the shorebirds, something of an identification challenge. Unfortunately, they were also beyond good photography range. Here are a few that were within range for photography.
(BTW and FYI, I use a Sony DSC-H5 with 7.2 megapixels and 12X optical zoom)

The Osprey - a Unique Bird of Prey

The e-mailer was driving along Route 142 near the Connecticut River when she saw a bird just above the water. She wrote: “This bird was big! Very light, mottled feathers, mostly white, but what really caught my eye was the distinctive black eye ‘patch’. As I watched, the bird made a very tight circle, folded it's wings, and dove straight into the water! It flew back out, apparently unsuccessful, because I did not see anything in it's talons.”

She saw an Osprey, also known as the Fish Hawk. With its recovery from the devastation caused by DDT, the Osprey is again a common bird along the New England coast, and may be seen anywhere in Vermont where there is water - along our rivers, lakes, and large ponds.

The Osprey’s diet is almost exclusively fish, and from what I have been able to determine, almost exclusively fresh fish. It hovers 30-100 feet above the water surface looking for fish near the surface. Finding its prey, it plunges to the water, sometimes completely submerging save for wing tips. Terres in Encyclopedia of North American Birds completes the description of the Osprey’s fishing: “Rises from water with fish gripped in both feet, pauses in midair to shake water from plumage, and to arrange fish with head pointed forward, which reduces its resistance to air, flies with it to habitual perch to eat or to nest to feed young. Reported to carry fish up to 4lbs or more.” This dull description only hints at the excitement generated when you are able to watch the real thing.

The Osprey is the only bird which fishes in this manner. Gulls plop on the surface. Many aerial sea birds, like pelicans or gannets, plunge dive, capturing fish in their beaks. The Bald Eagle, also a “fish hawk,” plucks fish near the surface with its talons.

The Osprey and the Bald Eagle pose interesting contrasts. The Osprey rarely eats dead fish; the Bald Eagle enjoys dead fish, and dead anything else. The Osprey is a tireless fisher. It will consume its catch, then go hunting for more. The Bald Eagle does as little work as possible. When in the mood for fresh meat, rather than carrion, it is content to let the Osprey catch a fish and then steal it.

An older naturalist, like Edward Forbush, always wrote of the benefit or harm that a particular bird posed to humans. In contrast to many other hawks, Forbush could write of the Osprey that all “the evidence available points to the conclusion that the Osprey is harmless to poultry, birds and game, and that most of the fish that it takes are species of little value to mankind. Fishermen usually welcome it as a guide to good fishing. All things considered, this great, handsome, picturesque and interesting bird must be regarded as a subject for perpetual protection.”

In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, an even greater contrast in attitude was found among coastal farmers. Where most people in those times considered hawks vermin to be exterminated (most hawks, given the opportunity, would take a barnyard chicken), coastal farmers and fishermen actively protected Osprey. They watched Ospreys aggressively protecting their nests, eggs, and young. The farmers’ young chickens ran free during the summer; it was assumed that the Osprey protected the chickens from other hawks. Coastal farmers were anxious to have Osprey nesting close to their farmyard, so they set up nesting platforms for them - a tall pole with a wheel fixed on its top.

However, John James Audubon was the more complete observer of the Osprey. In the mid-nineteenth century he described the Osprey, or Fish Hawk as he knew it, as having a mild disposition: “Not only do these birds live in perfect harmony together, but they even allow other birds of very different character to approach so near to them as to build their nests of the very materials of which the outer parts of their own are constructed. I have never observed a Fish Hawk chasing any other bird whatever.”

He also debunks the coastal farmers belief that the Osprey protected the barnyard chickens from other hawks. Rather than staying away from the Ospreys, the other hawks simply went away; they went inland “for the purpose of rearing their young in security.” When the shorebirds and waterfowl returned to the coastal marshes, the other hawks returned as well. By then, the Osprey had completed its nesting and had begun moving south.

The Osprey is one of the most widely distributed birds in the world, found on every continent in the world except Antarctica and even on some remote Pacific Islands. In the western hemisphere it nests in North America; northern populations migrate to warmer climates for the winter.

The Osprey is a unique bird of prey. It belongs to the Order: Falconiformes - the diurnal birds of prey. But the Osprey has been on its own evolutionary path for a long time. Taxonomic classification constantly changes. At one time the Osprey was in a Family by itself; the other Families being Hawk Family and Falcon Family. Current classification puts it in a sub-Family of the Hawk Family, making it a little more closely related to the hawks and eagles than to the falcons, but not by much. It is the only member of its sub-Family.

The point is, there are things about the Osprey that are unique among the diurnal birds of prey. For example, the Osprey has long, strong claws, curved about one-third of a circle. The claws are round. The toes are equal length. The lower surface of the toes are covered with spicules (small, bony spines) which help hold slippery fish. The outer toe is reversible (like an owls’) so that it can hold prey with two toes in front and two in back. Its plumage is compact which reduces wetting when it plunges into the water. These are only some features of the Osprey which make it unique among the hawks.

The scientific name for the Osprey is Pandion haliaetus. The genus name refers to the complicated Greek legend of Pandion, king of Athens, and his two daughters. The rules of taxonomic nomenclature require that once a name has been applied, we are stuck with it, even if it is wrong. This is one of those cases; there is no reasonable, or even unreasonable, reason for applying the name “Pandion” to the Osprey. The best that can be said, is that this was a flight of mythological exuberance. The species name, haliaetus, does a little better; it means “sea eagle” from the Greek.

How the name “Osprey” came to be applied to this “Fish Hawk” is a mystery. “Osprey” probably derives from the Latin, meaning something like “bone breaker.” The original “bone-breaker” known to the Romans was the Lammergeier, or “lamb vulture,” which dropped bones from a height in order to break them. No one seems to know how “osprey” came to be applied to the bird we know. However, translators of the King James Version (1611) do refer to “the eagle, the ossifrage, and the ospray.” An early commentator on this translation explains that the ossifrage is a “species of eagle” and the osprey is “the black eagle.” Clearly these theologians were a bit confused, especially since Shakespeare a few years earlier had written (correctly) in Coriolanus: “As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it by sovereignty of nature.” This suggests that for reliable observations of the natural world, you may be better served by a poet than by a theologian.

Good birding!

The Osprey - a Favorite with Hawk Watchers

Migration is underway. If the weather has cleared by the time this column appears, the Broad-winged Hawk numbers crossing the Putney Mountain ridge should be at their peak, with potential numbers in the hundreds in a day. The small band of hawk watchers began trekking to the clearing along the ridge line at the beginning of September. They do an actual count of the migrating hawks; the count numbers are sent to a national data base and become fodder for researchers.

The “count” provides an excuse for this quirky sub-group of birdwatchers to pursue their fascination with hawks, and in particular, with the challenging art of identifying hawks in flight. Most bird identification by birdwatchers involves observation of field marks, recognition of plumage, and association of size, shape, and feeding habits with a particular species. But hawks in flight are high overhead, often only a dark profile against the sky. Watching that dark profile as it flaps, or glides, or soars, or stoops and attaching those distant observations to a particular species, is an art. Join the watchers on Putney Mountain and listen as they discuss the identity of a passing hawk, and you will realize that it is an imprecise art. For some, it is also an art that is addictive.

But my interest today is not the hawk watchers, but the hawks - and one in particular: the Osprey. In a typical year, a couple hundred Ospreys may be counted by the Putney Mountain hawk watchers, so it is not an uncommon bird. Even so, the Osprey always creates a buzz as it approaches and passes over, diverting attention from any other hawks which may be visible at the same time. Only an eagle - the less common Bald or very rare Golden - creates a greater buzz and diverts attention for longer.

The Peregrine Falcon also generates excitement, but the Peregrine is likely to pass quickly, as though it has a deadline to meet. Not so the Osprey. It flies steadily and with purpose. It is large, twenty-three inches in length and with a wing-span of sixty-three inches. Among the hawks of the Northeast, only the eagles are larger. The Osprey’s size neutralizes wind and weather. Strong winds buffet small hawks, like the Sharp-shinned or kestrel, bouncing them on the currents, pushing them along like a red maple leaf loose in the air. Not so the Osprey. It flies steady, seemingly oblivious to even the heaviest winds, yet deftly employing those winds to travel with minimum expense, seldom flapping, merely adjusting a wing set or a tail angle for full advantage.

Moreover, the Osprey is likely to travel in all manner of weather. Cloud cover, heavy and low, grounds most hawks. But the Osprey, always born near water, is a habitue of lakes, of ocean coasts with rolling fog banks, and river valleys where morning fog lies heavily long after sunrise. A bit of cloud cover is no deterrent to this master of the gray skies.

That’s not say that the Osprey cannot soar. It can and does soar. Give it a rising thermal on a sunny mid-day, and the Osprey will circle quickly and effortlessly upward, joining the dozens of Broad-winged Hawks that rely on those thermals during their long migration to the tropics.

When still a dark spot in the sky, hawk watchers are likely to announce the Osprey’s approach. The wing set is their clue. The Osprey looks like a large flying capital “M.” A more technical description is that Osprey’s wings are held above the horizontal with a sharp downward bend at the wrist. Some writers also caution that this wing set can be confused with the wing set of gulls; they caution that the Osprey is the hawk that looks like a gull but is not. If I had not read that an Osprey could be confused with a gull, I would not have known that. Gulls may fly with wings that look like a capital “M,” but they almost always flap their wings. Ospreys over Putney Mountain don’t flap. (At least, they don’t flap like the occasional passing gull.)

The Osprey’s charisma lies in its size, in the steadiness and surety with which it flies, and in the command it exercises of wind and weather. Its charisma may also derive from its sheer presence and relative commonness. Not too many years ago, the Osprey was severely endangered. The pesticide, DDT, worked its way through the food chain, concentrating in the prey species at the top of the food chain - in the Osprey’s case, the fish on which it fed. DDT thinned the egg shells, the end result of which was widespread nesting failure. When DDT was banned, the Osprey began to recover, aided by many recovery efforts. Nesting platforms all along seacoasts, lakes and rivers are the most visible evidence of those recovery efforts which also included rigorous protections, and often hacking programs. Hacking programs involve taking a chick from a distant area, and raising it with surrogate parents (usually underpaid biology students). The success of these programs with Ospreys was probably helped by the fact that Ospreys are genetically programmed to hunt in the Osprey manner; they do not have to be taught by the parents. When the young are able to fly, they begin to fish.

The Osprey has recovered. Especially along the coasts, it is considered common. In southeasternVermont you may see it along the Connecticut or West Rivers from late-March to early November. Many pairs nest near Lake Champlain. I have seen Osprey over Grout Pond, Somerset and Harriman Reservoirs. And of course, during “hawk watch season” on Putney Mountain, they are regular.

The hawk watchers have a rule of thumb that when one Osprey is seen, five minutes later another will be appear. I would not want to subject this rule to a rigorous scientific testing, but it is generally true that the Osprey is an unusually gregarious hawk and travels with others of its kind. John James Audubon often saw flocks of eight or ten Ospreys migrating together along the coast.

Ospreys are also likely to nest in proximity to other Ospreys. In the early twentieth century, Forbush knew of a colony on Narranganset Bay with about seventy-five active nests. In protected coastal areas today where nesting platforms have been erected, it is common to see multiple Osprey nests. Ospreys seem to be able to get along with their neighbors, a characteristic that is not very common in the natural world - nor, for that matter, in the civilized world. Given this characteristic, it is not so surprising that the Ospreys will migrate together, sometimes at five minute intervals.

Of course, many hawks are seen with their kind during migration. Sharp-shinned Hawks often travel together, but as any hawk watcher will tell you, they don’t travel together in peace. Sharpies are constantly in dog-fights with one another, or any other hawk or eagle that may presume to share air space with them. Broad-winged Hawks migrate by the dozens, and sometimes hundreds, and further south by the thousands and tens of thousands. They congregate where the thermals are rising; they watch for distant kettles of broadies to locate the next thermal on the route. But once in the tropics, they disperse widely and singly to spend the winter.

Ospreys don’t seem to need their kind to get along, but they seem to get along with their own kind. I can think of worst ways to live one’s life. I’ll probably have more on the Osprey in the future, but for the moment, the rain has stopped, the sky is clearing, and I’d rather go look at hawks than write about them. And that dark spot in the sky that looks like the “Arches” with the gold turned off - that’s an Osprey. Good birding.

Late Summer Sightings at the Feeders

First the birds that have not been in my backyard lately. The blackbirds - they showed up early in the Spring and were regular until early August. By then their nesting and breeding were complete and they abandoned my yard to gather in their huge flocks, and I suppose for some of them, to begin their migrations. Red-winged Blackbirds, grackles, cowbirds, and starlings may be around your area, but they are no longer visiting my feeders.

The Cedar Waxwings which were buzzing so persistently through the tree tops just a couple of weeks ago have apparently taken the kids, who should be old enough now to feed themselves, and gone to join up with others of their kind. Their large, gregarious, nomadic flocks will now wander about our neighborhoods, carousing on fermented fruit through the winter months.

I have not seen the resident nesting Common Yellowthroat. The young are on their own, and the parents no longer have territory to defend or nests to care for. If they are still around, they are skulking quietly.

So what birds are around? All of the expected year-round residents are here: chickadees, titmice, Hairy and Downy Woodpeckers, doves and pigeons. They seem to have concluded their young rearing for the year. Some, like the doves and pigeons have raised multiple broods. The young of all of these are evident, not so much by plumage as by their naivete. They are still slow to take flight, not yet fully aware of the dangers lurking around the yard.

The adult cardinals still come by in the early morning and late evening. One male cardinal is very scruffy - either he is a young bird molting into adult plumage, or a adult changing his plumage. Cardinals may raise three or four broods in a season, and I suspect that the resident pair is still busy with nestlings. Last year there were recently fledged cardinals in mid- to late-September; plumage of the juvenile is much like the female, but the bill is dark.

As recently as last Saturday, an Evening Grosbeak was feeding its young in the backyard. As a nestling, the grosbeak is fed regurgitated insects. I watched the adult crack open sunflower seeds with its powerful beak and feed them into the open bill of the fledgling. These young grosbeaks are undoubtedly a second brood.

Song Sparrows also raise multiple broods during a breeding season, and one of the resident pair is still finishing up with their latest brood; they were feeding young in the yard early this week.

Some of my neighbors in Newfane have enough coniferous forests around their homes that the Red-breasted Nuthatch is a regular, year-round visitor to their feeders. In my backyard, I have come to expect them to show up in the late summer. They are regular for about a month. Then they are a sporadic feeder bird through the Fall and Winter. Smaller than its cousin, the White-breasted Nuthatch (which visits my feeders every single day of the year), the Red-breasted Nuthatch is an active little comic - tame, acrobatic, inquisitive. A delight to have around.

The bee-balm is starting to fade, but the Hummingbirds are still here, now feeding on the phlox and drinking nectar from the hummingbird feeder. There are always two or three around, and I have counted as many as seven. But the hummingbirds in my yard pale compared to those of a friend on Newfane Hill. Her feeder is twice the size of mine and she fills it twice a day. Most of the hummingbirds appear to be juveniles. The male has given up defending his territory from other males, females, and his offspring; he’s probably on his way south. I’ll keep the humming bird feeder out until late September.

The goldfinches are common. They are one of the last birds in our area to nest, often not beginning until mid to late June, but often managing more than one brood anyway. They’re beginning to form into their winter flocks. One or two pair were visitors to the backyard during the early summer; now there are a dozen or more. The bright-yellow males are showing feather wear, looking sort of tattered. They will soon molt into their winter olive drab.

Occasionally joining the goldfinches are a couple of their close relatives, the little brown Pine Siskins. The siskin can be easily mistaken for a sparrow. The siskin bill is thin and pointed, unlike sparrows. A trace of yellow in the wings is very unsparrow-like.

A walk through my yard shows feathers scattered everywhere. The doves and jays, in particular, are molting feathers. I saw a dove yesterday with a day feather sticking out at an odd angle. When it flew, the feather was shaken loose and floated to the ground. When Mourning Doves perch, the tail feathers usually form a long, neat point. The pointed tail of a dove on my feeder consisted of one feather.

A few days ago, I was taking in clothes from our solar clothes dryer. (Older readers might know it as a clothesline - the most energy efficient, cost effective, environmentally friendly, and underused laundry appliance.) From somewhere in a nearby bush I heard movement and rustling, like a cat or groundhog might make if it were barging through the understory. A chickadee called sharply. I looked toward the disturbance. A hawk was beneath the bush, banded tail spread wide. It flew. My glimpse, not much longer than the time it will take you to read this subordinate clause, was of a young Sharp-shinned Hawk, brown-backed, not gray like the adult. By the relatively large size, it was probably a female. I could not see its talons as it flew off so I don’t know whether it had hunted successfully. I suspect not. Its whole manner had seemed clumsy.

After the hawk disappeared and I returned to my solar dried laundry. My mind finally woke up to the Blue Jays’ cacophony in the distance. They called their warning before the hawk attacked, but I had paid no attention. They were continuing to signal the danger. When I looked toward the feeders, the birds were gone. There was silence from the surrounding trees.

And yes, the Blue Jays are around. A dozen at a time sweep in on the feeders. They shovel seed to the ground for the ground feeders, then pick out one seed, then repeat the shoveling before eating another seed. They tussle among themselves. They are not the unmitigated bullies some people imagine them; grosbeaks hold their own against the jays. So do the timid appearing, passive appearing doves. I suspect that even the birds which appear to be bullied by the jays don’t really mind. The Blue Jays, after all, are the neighborhood’s guardians. In the constant movement, the jays are usually the first to notice danger, raise the alarm, and marshal forces to drive off predators. The young hawk will have a better opportunity to practice its hunting skills if it can find a neighborhood free of Blue Jays.

As you may have gathered, during the late summer there is a lot of good birding in my backyard.

Backyard Birds

The backyard feeders have been busy. But first, what has not been here - no blackbirds since early August. Red-wings, grackles, cowbirds, and starlings have moved from their breeding dispersal, gathering in flocks elsewhere.

In the backyard as of Saturday, September 1 - Evening Grosbeaks were feeding young.


Pine Siskins have come down from their mountain breeding areas and have been regulars


Some neighbors have the Red-breasted Nuthatch as a regular year-round feeder bird. At my feeders, they show up during August and September, then periodically through the winter. Two or three were around all day yesterday.


Rose-breasted Grosbeaks are less common, but this youngster is beginning to show his true colors.


There have been so many young hummingbirds on the bee-balm, that the resident male has given up trying to defend his territory. I counted six at one time yesterday.


Spotty without his breeding spots is still working the river.


An odd resting stance for the Mourning Dove - looks like its injured, but it was fine.