Chick-a-Dee-Dee-Dee

Why the Chickadee Deserves a Place on the Favorite Bird List

Black-capped Chickadee

I was asked recently what my favorite bird is. Before I could answer, the interrogator said, “My favorite bird is the chickadee.” Implicit was a challenge that dared me to disagree. I always dance around that question, even if no one is challenging me. There are just too many birds out there to narrow the choice down to one.

That said, a good argument can be made for the chickadee being your favorite bird, and one of my favorite birds.

“Chickadee” is the common name given to a group of birds which talk with one another, and occasionally to us, with some variation of “chick-a-dee-dee-dee.” There are seven chickadees in North America, all in the Genus Poecile. Three are found in eastern North America. The Carolina Chickadee is the southern species which ranges about as far north as southern Pennsylvania; it has not been recorded in Vermont. The Boreal Chickadee is the brown-capped inhabitant of northern boreal forests. It is uncommon in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom. On rare occasions during the winter it may roam as far south as my neighborhood in southeastern Vermont. “Our” chickadee in New England is the Black-capped Chickadee.

Back to my interrogator who immediately followed her declaration by adding,  “They stick around all year.”

Very true.  The Black-capped Chickadee is a year-round resident. I have long suspected that the chickadees which I feed in the summer are more or less the same chickadees which I feed in the winter. Then I stumbled on a chickadee account, drawn from good chickadee studies, which told me that in the fall chickadees form flocks of three to twelve individuals, stake claim to a twenty acre feeding area, and pretty much stay in that area until the hormones start flowing in the spring. This all but confirms that the chickadees which came to my feeder this morning are the same ones that have been coming since the first snow flew back in late October, and maybe before that. They are tough little birds.

Chickadee feeding on web-worms

Chickadees rarely move very far from where they were hatched. Over 60,000 Canadian banding records collected from 1921 to 1995 show that 90% of recaptured birds show no movement. When there is movement among the chickadees, it almost entirely young birds, though a severe food shortage may also cause movement by older adults.

However, there must be additional reasons for claiming the chickadee as the favorite bird than their every-day-of-the-year presence in our neighborhoods. Remember that House Sparrows and Rock Pigeons also maintain a year-round presence, and they do it even on the barren concrete and asphalt streets in the downtown. The House Sparrow and pigeon are hardy winter residents and survivors through the worst New England winters, just as are the chickadees. But, no one in their right mind would place either of these non-native birds anywhere close to a list of favorite birds much less name either as a favorite bird.

What is it then that would justify someone naming the chickadee as his/her favorite bird?

First, I have to admit to what I have written in the past. I have two chapters in my book, “Tails of Birding,” which argue that we should never call a bird “cute.” I have received lots of friendly flak for those essays, but I stand by them.  (I suggest you beg, borrow, or buy the book and find out why “cute” should never be applied to a bird.)

However, I have never considered consistency as a virtue. The chickadee can qualify as your favorite bird because it is so darn cute. It has one of the perkiest, most endearing personalities of any creature I know, feathered or not. When I put seed out in the morning, I hear a thank you “chick-a-dee-dee” as soon as I finish and return to the house. “Thank you” seems to be fading from the vocabulary of my own species. If I am late putting the seed out, I am greeted with a scolding “chick-a-dee-dee,” but it is then followed by the thank you.

Chickadees are curious little birds. Sometimes I will stand in the woods or near a thick tangle on a roadside. I won’t hear or see a single bird. Then I begin to “phish, phish, phish.” In moments, chickadees are coming near to check things out. They may bring a few friends, like a woodpecker, or a nuthatch, but they lead the way. They come close to check out the source of the phishing. Am I friend or foe? Could I possibly be food? Their response when they see me will explain why they are not my absolute favorite bird. When they see me they utter an exasperated “chick-a-dee” and fly off. It is as though they were saying, “Oh, it’s just you.”

Toward many people, chickadees are very friendly, almost tame. They will land on a head. They will eat out of a human hand. I have never had one do that, probably for two reasons. I have never taken the time or had the patience to establish that kind of a friendly relationship. And I have cats. They are indoor cats, but they like to sit on the kitchen table and watch the birds come to the bird feeders, especially the window feeder. When the chickadee lands on the window feeder, it can see the cat inside. That presents a barrier to a close chickadee-human relationship. How can any bird trust a human which would tolerate a cat? Chickadees are bright little birds.

When a hawk is in the neighborhood, Blue Jays raise a racket. They send out the alarm. So do chickadees. They don’t have the vocal capacity of the jays, but they are right there with their warning calls: “ChickadeedeedeeChickadeedeedee.” Chickadees not only call in reinforcements; they get right into the fray. They join the jays in harassing the hawk.

I once watched chickadees raise the first alarm on a Cooper’s Hawk, a bird eating predator and chickadee enemy. They were joined by a flock of jays and a couple of woodpeckers. A Cooper’s Hawk stands about 16.5 inches and weighs 1.0 pound. The Blue Jay stands 11 inches and weighs 3 ounces. The chickadee is 5.25 inches in height and tips the scale at about 1/3 ounce. The chickadees led the first attack.  They ceded their field position (or is it aerial position?) as soon as the gang of jays arrived, but who can blame them. The woodpeckers rattled alarm from the safety of a tree trunk. The cardinal hid in the bushes and the doves flew off across the river. You have to like the chickadees; they are bold and gutsy.

“Chick-a-dee-dee-dee” is not the chickadee’s song; it is the chickadee’s call. It is the everyday language used to talk with its own kind, share food sources, tell of dangers, and thank me for finally putting out the seed. On mild winter days, and when spring finally makes its fitful appearance, the chickadee begins to sing. The song consists of a low, sweet, whistled “phe-be,” or “fee beeyee.” It is easy to miss the song.

Chickadee emerges from its nest hole in a tree trunk

Chickadees are cavity nesters. They use old Downy Woodpecker holes. If they can’t find a woodpecker hole, they make their own nest hole in an old tree trunk. They have small, delicate beaks, so the tree has to be soft and well rotted. I have found chickadee-excavated nests a couple of times. Neither nest was reused a second year; the old tree had fallen over. They also like bird houses. Over the years I have had a number of chickadees raise families in my boxes. The preferred size is a wren box with a 1.25 inch entry hole. Unfortunately, House Wrens take exception to chickadees using their boxes and will evict them. When you clean out your nest boxes in the fall, you will easily see the difference between chickadee and wren nests. Chickadees build a neat, moss-lined nest, very precise and almost fussy. A wren nest is a messy jumble of sticks, as though they barely cared.

Chickadees are socially monogamous. They form a pair bound, often in the fall or early winter and stick together throughout the nasty winter weather. In the spring they share nest building and they raise their broods together. But when the hormones begin flowing in the spring, fidelity gets washed away. He cheats on her, and she cuckolds him. Watch the chickadees in mid-April as they race around the bushes, shrubs and branches. Everybody is trying to get a little on the side and keep someone else from getting a little on the side, and everybody is getting some on the side. After a long winter staring at the cabin walls, the chickadee sex races are marvelously entertaining, and so accessible. You have got to love them for welcoming spring with such consumptive horniness.

Chickadee opens a sunflower seed

If you take the chickadee as your favorite bird, you can make a good case for you choice. Edward Howe Forbush, the New England ornithologist, would agree: “The little Black-capped Chickadee is the embodiment of cheerfulness, verve and courage. It can boast no elegant plumes, and it makes no claims as a songster, yet this blithe woodland sprite is a distinctive character, and is a bird masterpiece beyond all praise.”

“Chick-a-dee-dee-dee.” Translated, that means good birding.

Monogamy Among the Birds

Last Saturday a small group gathered in the early morning for an Audubon field trip around a Dummerston marsh. Near the end of the slow amble (these trips can rarely be called hikes or walks), we stood looking at a gnarled cherry tree. About seven feet from the ground was a one inch hole. A pair of chickadees went to and from the tree, and in and out of the hole. They were carrying food. Inside the hole was a nest with hatchlings.

During the ten minutes we watched the hole, the chickadees made at least ten visits to their nest, probably more, since no one was counting carefully. They exhibited a hurried energy and focused urgency which left us catching our breath. When the group finally moved on, it find stimulus in a waiting coffee pot.

While watching a chickadee duck into the hole with a beak full of food, then fly out rapidly on another foraging trip, one of our group said something like, “That’s why birds are monogamous; it takes more than one to feed the young. Mammals are polygamous; only the mother feeds the young.”

That is a sweeping generality, and like all sweeping generalities, arguable at hundreds of points and with exceptions running all over the place. With that acknowledgment, however, let’s take a generalized look at the mammal side. Ancient potentates exhibited their power by maintaining huge harems. Wise King Solomon, for example, reportedly had 700 wives, plus 300 concubines, which makes me wonder how he ever had time to think up proverbs of wisdom. Indeed, that report presents a serious challenge to his supposed wisdom. Nevertheless, he did not have to spend any time with hands on child care.

Better evidence is even closer at hand. Polygamy may not always be evident among mammals, but the prevalence of single parenting appears to be the norm. Field mice, chipmunks, and squirrels on the small end, and deer, moose, and bear on the large end, all leave the raising of young to the diligence of the mother. She does all of the feeding on her own until her young can begin to care for themselves. If we wanted to argue that mammals are the most advanced evolutionary order, then we might also have to conclude that in this most advanced order, the male is only needed - only good - for one thing.

But let’s go back to the birds. It is estimated that more than 90 percent of all bird species are socially monogamous. That is, they form a pair bond for at least one breeding season and cooperate in raising young. The chickadees which we watched as they brought food to the hatchlings in the nest, bonded together a few weeks ago. In essence, they made a pact with one another to raise those young. When the hatchlings fought their way out of the egg shell, they were altricial - blind, naked, helpless, and voraciously hungry. With the untiring energy of the attendant pair of adult birds, in a few short weeks those hatchlings will leave the nest. Soon after, they will be independent and on their own.

The completely helpless condition of the young when they hatch necessitates social cooperation if anyone’s genes are going to survive. But this social cooperation, or social monogamy, is distinct from genetic monogamy. With the development of DNA studies, scientists are discovering bird species after bird species that engage in “extra-pair copulations.” Or in vernacular terms, they cheat on their spouse.


The female chickadee in the cherry tree nest hole laid 6-8 eggs. It is probable that the eggs she laid were fertilized by two or more males. Her partner may have fertilized the majority of the eggs, but it is unlikely that he fertilized all of the eggs. It is also possible that she did not lay all of the eggs. Though less common, females who may not have formed a pair bond, may drop an egg in someone else’s nest. Or maybe she has formed a pair bond, but drops one of her eggs in someone else’s nest anyway.

“One key characteristic of many socially monogamous species is that two parents must provide care in order to raise the young successfully. When both the male and female are necessary to provide adequate care, social monogamy is common.” (Sibley, Guide to Bird Life & Behavior)

There are, of course, many different strategies which different bird species employ during the breeding season. Hatchling shorebirds and waterfowl are precocial, able to feed themselves soon after hatching. A parent may have to protect them from danger; recently I watched a mother Mallard do an elaborate and energetic injured bird act in an attempt (successful) to keep me from looking for her young. A parent of precocial young may have to show them how to find food, but there is none of the frantic work that the chickadee parents engaged in.

Some species engage helpers, often a young bird from a previous breeding season, which stays with its parents and helps out. Corvids often use this cooperative strategy. The nesting crows in my neighborhood are three in number; I surmise a bonded pair and a helper.

About 2 percent of bird species are polygynous; a male has a breeding partnership with two or more females. Red-winged blackbirds are polygynous, as are Wild Turkeys. The counterpart in which a female partners with two or more males is polyandry.

The Brown-headed Cowbird is a very successful breeder without forming any pair bonds or doing any parenting. The species is a brood parasite. The female lays her egg in another species’ nest, and then takes off. The raising of the young is left entirely to the host parents.

Social monogamy in birds develops when two parents are needed to raise the young. This is true for most songbirds, hawks, and herons. They are weak, helpless, and unable to maintain their body temperature. They need to be kept warm, fed and protected - a two parent job. A pair of adult birds contracts with one another to raise their young together for at least one breeding season, and perhaps many seasons. In general, the bonded pair are the genetic parents of most of the young they raise.

A couple of days after the Audubon amble, I returned to the marsh to watch the chickadees. They seemed aware of my presence, uneasy with me sitting 25 feet away and staring at their nest hole. They were nervous on the nearby branches, uneasy about flying to the hole and giving away its location. One chickadee lingered inside for a while, then poked its head out the hole. It stayed there, as though assessing whether I posed any threat or danger to its helpless young. Finally, it concluded that I was benign, and it flew off to forage.

I did not stay for long as the chickadees were feeding their offspring. Even though I was just watching, they could do without my extended presence. Better that I spend my time advising my offspring how to raise their offspring. Unlike Solomon, I have the wisdom of experience.

Champions of the Christmas Bird Count

The 110th Christmas Bird Count (CBC) got under way on December 14 and will continue through January 5. This is a massive citizen science project. Last year’s CBC involved almost 60,000 participants: 11,700 in Canada, 46,600 in the United States, 1700 in Latin America, the Caribbean, and the Pacific Islands. 9200 were stationary feeder watchers; the rest were in the field. The field counts are done in prescribed areas with a fifteen miles radius. In 2008 there were 2124 count circles which reported; a good number of counts were canceled due to the weather.

In the past, I have had some beef with some of the reporting on the Christmas counts in some birding circles, and in some birding publications, including the official publication of the CBC. There has been a tendency to place emphasize on the counts that get the highest number species or the biggest total of birds, as though the CBC was a contest that someone could win. For example, in a report from a couple of years ago, a count circle in Texas “regained its crown at the top of the species list at 235; last year’s champ [also in Texas] found some wonderful birds, but lost the top spot.” I have deliberately edited out the names, because there are no champs and no crowns in the CBC. It is not a sport and a contest, and there should be no implications in that direction. If the Texas birders want to have a strutting testosterone contest with one another and with areas in California, then they should do that at another time.

The real champions of the CBC are the thousands of counters who go out in the field searching for birds when most sensible people are hunkered down by a warm fire sipping hot toddies. The champions of the CBC are the like counters in Vermont and New England. They are like the people who did the Springfield and Bellows Falls count circles. They are like the thirty people who did the Brattleboro area who set out on the coldest Saturday morning any of the veterans could remember for a count day ... when the temperature was two degrees above zero. Through the day it crept up to the low twenties, but the damp cold penetrated clothing in a way that the early morning cold did not.

Sorry Texans, but listing 200+ species on a Christmas Bird Count does not make you a champion. Doing a Christmas Bird Count in the grip of a Canadian, Northern Great Plains, or New England winter does make you a champion. Doing a count in the face of a Gulf Coast storm might also qualify a Texan, but not a mere long list of birds. I would suggest that finding a 150 or more species in California or Texas - the states where most of the highest counts occur - is no more of an accomplishment than finding 20+ species in the Yukon, 40+ species in North Dakota, or 50+ species in Vermont. In fact, in Texas or California it is probably easier to find 150 species than it is to find 20 in many northern count areas. In the Brattleboro area, we barely managed 50. In Randolph they began the day at minus12 degrees, ended it at 17 degrees, and tallied 34 birds. The Brattleboro team which did the Marlboro area found 14 species. A counter in Winhall listed 12 species on her route.

Simply put, the champs and heroes of the CBC are the volunteers who do the counts whatever the foul conditions may be as one year turns to the next, and regardless of how many wintering species there may be.

Collectively, the Christmas bird counts provide data on such subjects as numbers, migration, irruption patterns, range expansion (or contraction), accidentals, endangered or threatened species, long-term population trends, and much more. It is fodder for the analysts, statisticians, and macro-biologists.

The information garnered by any one count area needs to be examined in the context of other counts. But the individual counts, with caution, can give us a glimpse of local situations as well.

For example, many people have asked me where all the birds are this winter, because they are not seeing them at their feeders. The Brattleboro area CBC gives a mixed report on common feeder birds. The number of Black-capped Chickadees was the lowest in the last ten years. The White-breasted Nuthatch also had a low count. On the other hand, Tufted Titmouse was about average, as was Mourning Dove. Downy and Hairy Woodpecker counts were up from the last two years, but within the expected range. Blue Jay had the highest count on record, as did Northern Cardinal. Dark-eyed Juncos were very common around feeders and in the woods and had the highest number in the last seven years.

The finch count was another matter. American Goldfinch numbers were low, and the winter finches are simply not here this year. Pine Siskins which irrupted last year were absent. Common Redpolls have been following a pattern of being here every other winter; this should have been their “on” year, but they were entirely absent. We counted only one Purple Finch. House Finches, which rely on feeders during the winter, were half of their recent numbers.

Pigeon and starling numbers were lower than usual; House Sparrow numbers were about average. These are the birds that everyone loves to hate, but they are an important food source for wintering hawks, and an indication of conditions (though don’t press me on what they are indicating).

Among the hawks, the Red-tailed was the most common; we counted sixteen, a record. Sharp-shinned, Cooper’s, and Northern Goshawk were also recorded. The first two often hunt around bird feeders. One of the highlights of the day for me was the sharpie which stooped on a bird feeder, having used a barn as cover for its attack.

Nearly every winter I hear people express surprise when they see robins or bluebirds. These two thrushes are seen every month of the year, even in the midst of the most wintry of winter months. The robin has only been missed twice in the last twelve years; 25 were counted this year. The Eastern Bluebird has been counted every year for the last twelve years on the Brattleboro count; this year there were 33 in several small flocks. The flock of eight male bluebirds which we found along Black Mountain Road was one of the day’s highlights.

In the Brattleboro area, we recorded 50 species, including our first ever Green-winged Teal. That is a relatively low number for recent years. However, we were solidly into winter’s grip with very little open water on ponds or rivers. Understandably, waterfowl and gulls which favor open water were fewer in numbers and species. The CBC often records a bird that normally should have migrated but for some reason lingered; usually weather conditions are milder when we record such species. This year the “winter accidentals” were absent: no catbird, sapsucker, heron, towhee, grackle, or summer-nesting sparrow.

Like most count groups across the country, the Brattleboro area counters gathered for a potluck party in the evening. After plate fulls of good food, vinous libations, and warm companionship, most still had not chased the cold from the bitter day out-of-doors. Will they do it again next year? You bet! People like that - people who are just a little bit nuts - are the champions of the Christmas bird count.

Good birding!

A single flock of Cedar Waxwings was found on the Brattleboro CBC, but that flock numbered over 250 birds. They were feeding on fruit trees just off Route 5 near the C&S warehouse.

Life and Death Around the Feeders

In early July, I wrote about the word “cute” as it is applied to birds. Back in the summer, very young birds are typically described as “cute,” although in fact they are clueless. They chase parents around, begging for food. They are slow in learning about food sources, and slower in learning about danger. I took a lot of friendly teasing over my protest on the use of “cute,” and probably did not change the verbal habits of anyone, but I shall continue to insist that “cute” is not an appropriate adjuective.

Now it is winter, and some of the birds coming to the bird feeders are still “cute” in the minds of many. And some are apparently still clueless. I admit that I enjoy watching the frenetic activity of many of the birds which feed on my largess. Along with my favorite companion (who is likely to use words like “cute” or “adorable”) I especially enjoy the woodpeckers, chickadees, titmice, and nuthatches.

The two woodpeckers, the Downy and the Hairy, wait patiently in nearby trees when I take in the suet feeder to refill it. When I rehang the suet feeder, I call out, “Okay, guys, come and get it.” There is a bit of chatter and by the time I am back in the kitchen, they are on the suet or waiting a turn on branches overhead. The Hairy is stocky and robust, and doesn’t say much to me. The Downy is “cute” as it peers down at me and chatters a “thank you,” or perhaps a “couldn’t you do it faster next time.”

The chickadees, titmice, and nuthatches come quickly to a feeder, grab a seed, and fly. Their acrobatics are entertaining. The actions of these year-round neighborhood residents are not all that different from what the juncos and sparrows are doing, but the ground feeders are not described as “cute” nearly so often.

The secret is in the eyes. The dark eye of the junco is not as noticeable against its dark head as is the dark eye of the titmouse. But any of these birds, or any small songbird, might on some occasion perch on a branch and look down at you with its head turned and cocked to the side, giving you the curious once-over in a very “cute” manner.

But there is serious business in the head-cocking, neck turning, hurry up - grab the seed - head to the bushes. The big eyes are located on the sides of the head, giving them a wide vision as they constantly watch for danger. They turn their head in order to get a look at me. And more importantly, they don’t linger to study a sudden movement in the periphery of their vision; they flee.

We call them “bird feeders,” but our bird feeders feed much more than just small songbirds. There are red squirrels and gray squirrels which find food on the ground or in the feeders. Field mice run tunnels beneath the snow, and gather the seed. Chipmunks stuff their cheeks throughout the fall and cache the seed in their burrows. At night deer feed on the fallen apples and lick the platform clean of seed. At different times of the year, skunk and bear scavenge food.

There are all kinds of food at the bird feeders. There is seed which feeds birds and animals. And then there are the birds and animals which feed other birds and animals. The eyes of predators do not look to the side. Their two eyes look forward. With keen binocular vision, they look for food. A fox looks for a mouse; a fisher spies a grouse. Your sweet, family cat with its eyes in front, hunts rodents and birds. Steathly slipping into a tree, the Sharp-shinned or Cooper’s Hawk studies the food possibilities around the feeders.

I sit at my kitchen table and watch the birds outside my window. A dozen Blue Jays are going to and from the various feeders. Suddenly they fly ... and every other bird flies; the jays are screaming loudly as they disappear into the pines. Somewhere nearby there is a hawk.

When the jays begin their loud alarm calls, I pay attention. They are warning everyone of danger. On a rare occasion, I see the jays mobbing a still silhouette in a tree, preemptively dealing with danger. A couple of times a year, I see a sudden flash through the yard as a hawk makes its attack. Most often, I see only scattered feathers lying about the grass or fluttering across the snow, silent evidence that the life and death struggle to find food has played out with some birds winning, and others losing in a fatal way.

When you put out a bird feeder, you must accept that hawks will come as well as chickadees. Sharp-shinned and Cooper’s Hawks are feeder birds. You can put your feeder where there is cover for the small birds - bushes, pines, trees - the thicker and more tangled, the more protection. But you must accept that hawks are sometimes going to look for food among the birds at your feeders, and sometimes they will be successful. If you cannot accept that, and leave the hawk unmolested as it hunts, kills, and dines, then you have no business feeding the birds.

Beyond those feathers scattered about the yard, I have had two recent experiences which lead me to issue the following: Warning, bird feeders are not for the faint of heart.

On my platform feeder a week ago, a Blue Jay was busy eating. It ate seed after seed after seed. But unlike the other jays, it did not come and go. Feathers around its neck were disordered and messy. One wing did not fold against its body and primary feathers were askew. When it finally flew, it did so with difficulty. In all likelihood, this Blue Jay had a near fatal encounter with something. Perhaps it damaged its wing as it fled from a hawk through a tangle. Perhaps it was hit by a young hawk, still not adept at taking prey, and escaped, but with injury. I only saw the injured Blue Jay one day. Unable to fly well - unable to use its feathers for full protection against the cold - it probably did not survive for long.

Sunday morning I saw a large dark circle atop the snow with a mound of red in the middle. When I went out to fill the feeders, I inspected. Beneath the three foot circle of downy feathers, the white snow was stained red. Bloody breast bones were picked clean. Part of the head remained to confirm the identification. The flock of thirty Mourning Doves which visit my feeders every morning had been reduced by one. A Cooper’s Hawk, the likely predator, had fed well.

The amusing antics of the chickadees, titmice, and nuthatches are serious business; there is nothing “cute” about them. These birds are in a race for life - contending with winter storms, freezing temperatures, and dangerous predators. Most of us have solved the problems of food and warmth during the winter. We have the luxury of warm dwellings and stocked pantries. We lighten the long, dark nights with neighbors, singing nowell clearly. We cosy down with the miracle of light and carols of hope. But the danger and struggle is never far off. It is as near as the other side of the window pane.

Buzz-Cut Jays & More Families

As handsome as Blue Jays are, when they are molting in late summer, they are pathetic looking. This particular jay has been around for about a week, and he is beginning to get his crest back ...

But his "do" is still nothing to brag about, although I probably should not anthropomorphize, because yesterday I caught a flash of a Sharp-shinned going low through the back yard. So it is probably more appropriate to say that he is being on the look out.

But this poor gentleman (or gentlelady) looks like it had a run in with a boot camp barber who only knows how to give a short buzz cut ...

No other way to put it but ugly. However, this does show the relationship, physically, to the dinosaurs ...

More families have been coming by. Mother Rose-breasted Grosbeak (left) was feeding the youngster all afternoon from the bounty and generosity of my feeders.

Sitting on the back porch, I heard Cedar Waxwings in the trees overhead. Then one flew into a nearby maple, showing the red tip of its tail. But not an adult - note the brown streaking. And of course, that open beak and begging posture! Tough being a parent.

And finally, a Black-capped Chickadee ... just because I love these little guys, and they stay around all winter ...

In the evening we kayaked Sunset Lake and I have more pictures of the loon. I am still going through them, but you'll want to come back tomorrow for the loon pics (or at least, I hope you'll want to come back).

Good birding!

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.

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.