What Is a Mississippi Kite Doing in New Hampshire?

What is a Mississippi Kite doing in New Hampshire? Before answering that question, there is this one: What is a Mississippi Kite?

I was on a sidewalk in a small town in eastern New Hampshire. It was Main Street and residential. About a dozen people were standing around, looking up. They all had binoculars. There were several telescopes on tripods, and a couple of very serious cameras with three foot telephoto lens. Passing drivers craned their necks for a glimpse of whatever it was we were looking at. A trucker paused his rig, leaned out the window and asked, “What are you looking at?” A car stopped in the middle of the road, and asked the same question while three cars back the driver beeped impatiently. When another car stopped next to me and asked the question, I responded, “Mississippi Kite.” The look on her face was blank incomprehension. Had I said that there was a hot air balloon caught on an antenna, a cat stuck in a tree, or even an eagle soaring overhead, there would have been understanding. But a kite is a flimsy paper thing that kids try to fly on windy March days. What kind of paper kite is a Mississippi Kite, and why would a bunch of graying adults be looking at that with so much intensity?

Most of the question answering was done by the local birdwatcher who lived a block away. Her answer, “Mississippi Kite,” followed by definition and commentary, backed up traffic. So the next time a motorist stopped next to me, I answered, “A rare hawk,” and the satisfied driver moved along.

Calling the Mississippi Kite “a rare hawk” is barely accurate. “Kite” (from a Greek word) is a common name loosely applied to several kinds of medium-sized hawks. There are five “kites” seen in North America, none in the same genus. “Kite” does not refer to genetic relationship, but rather to physical and behavioral similarities. Most kites are slim birds; in flight they glide and soar gracefully, circling and swooping, somewhat similar to the way a paper kite on a string “flies.” The paper kite was named after the bird, not the other way around.

The Mississippi Kite was “discovered” by the early American ornithologist, Alexander Wilson, in Mississippi, hence its name. This southern state name also suggests its breeding range. It is a southern bird which nests in the southern half of the Gulf states, in the southern Mississippi River Valley, and in the southern Great Plains. It nests in trees near the edge of woodlots and hunts over open country. Trees planted as shelterbelts and in towns have enabled the Mississippi Kite to expand its range in the Great Plains, and its population in some areas has greatly increased. It winters in southern South America.

So, what is a Mississippi Kite doing in eastern New Hampshire? Apparently there are times when the Mississippi Kite on its northward journey doesn’t know when to stop. Or perhaps it gets a strong tailwind which keeps its going, or a storm which blows it north of its normal breeding range. Or maybe it just doesn’t read its range map in the bird guides. Whatever the reason, it is a regular vagrant in some areas far north of where it should be.

In the last half dozen years when I have made a Spring trip to Cape May, New Jersey, the Mississippi Kite has been present. One year I managed to see the bird. Four kites were flying high overhead - dark, pointed wing silhouettes, circling, soaring, and swooping, as they fed on dragonflies. Large insects make up most of its diet.

Mississippi Kites are also regularly reported in the Spring in southeastern Massachusetts, usually in the Cape Cod area. Presumably these birds eventually realize that they overshot their destination and return south. Or maybe they are young, nonbreeding birds out seeing the world.

So the first answer to the question: What is a Mississippi Kite doing in New Hampshire? - might be something like: they got lost, blown off course, or are tourists. But that hardly captures the excitement of New Hampshire birders when they first identified the bird, because there are no previous records of the Mississippi Kite being seen in New Hampshire. The first report posted two weeks ago hoped that they could somehow get three people to confirm the sighting, or some photographs - required for a fully documented state record.

That anxiety has vanished. Three Mississippi Kites are in the small town in eastern New Hampshire: an adult male, an adult female, and (apparently) a juvenile, or year old, female. They are breeding. In the top of a tall maple tree ten feet from the edge of Main Street, they have built a nest that (in Audubon’s words) “resembles the dilapidated tenement of the Common American Crow, formed of sticks slightly put together.”

One week ago, a friend and I spent about two hours on the sidewalk across the street from the nest tree. We watched the male carrying sticks back and forth, eventually disappearing into the foliage with his nesting material. We saw the kite gracefully dipping and soaring high overhead. One of the females spent long minutes perched on a high bare branch, preening. In a more distant willow tree, one of the kites also preened.

In the rather brief time I spent watching the kites, it was not clear which female was the younger one, and the identity of the male (smaller than the female) was only clear when he copulated, which he did on several occasions. Observations reported in the last week seem to suggest that the male has copulated with both females and that incubation is occurring, but it is still unclear what the role of the younger female is. Is she a helper bird? Has she laid an egg in the nest? One or two eggs are the usual number. No one has yet suggested that there may be a second nest in the vicinity, though the Mississippi Kite often nests colonially.

What is a Mississippi Kite doing in New Hampshire? The answer: it is breeding. But that still doesn’t explain how three kites came to be so far out of their normal range, nor why they decided to stay in the north and breed. We won’t know those answers. Nor will we know whether those vagrants seen in previous years far outside of their range stayed around to breed, unnoticed by anyone who could identify them.

I do know that last Friday on that Main Street sidewalk, there were a dozen or so very intent birders, a number of curious motorists and passing joggers, and three Mississippi Kites. The birders were getting a rare treat, a vagrant seldom seen in New England, putting on an exceptionally rare show. The birders had smiles on their faces.
And the male kite, with his two females ... well, he seemed to have a smile on his face too. Good birding.

Mississippi Kite, NH

Friday went to Newmarket, NH, for the Mississipi Kite. One male and two females are busy nest building and copulating. Nest is hidden in a maple tree next to a fairly busy state route in a residential are. Parts of the nest are visible. This is the first breeding record for Mississippi Kite in New Hampshire, and the first record of this species in New Hampshire. There have been fairly regular Spring reports in eastern Massachusetts the last few years.




After a couple of hours watching the kites, went on to Plum Island. Dipped on the King Rail, but had a great demonstration of Least Bittern agility at Hellcat Swamp (no decent photos), and near the maintenance shed watched a pair of Orchard Orioles feeding young - here is the year old male feeding young.

Early Results from the 2003-2007 Vermont Breeding Bird Atlas

The second Vermont Breeding Bird Atlas (VBBA) conducted its field research from 2003 to 2007. The aim of the project was to document the nesting status and location of every bird species breeding in Vermont. Sponsors of the project included Vermont Fish & Wildlife and the U.S. Forest Service. It was under the direction of the conservation biology department (now the independent Vermont Center for Ecostudies) of the Vermont Institute of Natural Science.

Data for the first Vermont Breeding Bird Atlas (VBBA) was gathered during 1977-1981 and published in 1985. This atlas helped pave the way for similar atlases in 30 other states and established Vermont as a nationwide leader in conservation biology research focused on birds. Now, after almost 25 years of changes in land use, climate, and many other factors that affect where birds breed, the need for a new Atlas documenting these changes was evident to researchers.

In brief, here’s how the atlas project worked: U.S. Geological quadrant maps cover a ten kilometer by fifteen kilometer area. Each map was divided into six blocks. From these six blocks, a priority block and a secondary block were randomly selected. These blocks were then surveyed by volunteers; data about birds observed within the block was carefully recorded. Three designations were used. A “Possible Breeder” is a species observed in its breeding season in suitable nesting habitat, with no other indication of breeding noted. A species was recorded as a “Probable Breeder” if activity was observed which indicative of breeding, such as a singing male, defense of territory, courtship display or agitated behavior suggesting the presence of a nest. Breeding was “Confirmed” when there was nest building, an occupied nest, fledged young, adult carrying food for young, a nest containing eggs, or downy young.

During the five year period for field research, data was gathered by over 200 volunteers who logged nearly 30,000 hours of field time.

A total of 200 species was documented during the second Vermont Breeding Bird Atlas, with 180 species confirmed.

Fourteen species confirmed in the first atlas (‘77-‘81) were not confirmed in the second atlas. Those species are: Red-breasted Merganser, Cattle Egret, Northern Pintail, American Coot, Gray Partridge, Barn Owl, Short-eared Owl, Common Nighthawk, Loggerhead Shrike, Red-headed Woodpecker, Cape May Warbler, Bay-breasted Warbler, Wilson’s Warbler, Tennessee Warbler.

However, seventeen species not found breeding in the first atlas were confirmed during the second atlas (‘03-‘07): Bald Eagle, Osprey, Peregrine Falcon, Great Egret, Double-crested Cormorant, Sandhill Crane, Caspian Tern, Great Black-backed Gull, Ring-necked Duck, Merlin, ring-necked Pheasant, Red-bellied Woodpecker, Fish Crow, Palm Warbler, Clay-colored Sparrow, White-winged Crossbill, Red Crossbill.

The breeding Bald Eagles were in Rockingham, the first confirmed breeding of this species in modern times. This breeding pair has had its difficulties. One year they hatched a chick, but it did not succeed in fledging. Then the nest was destroyed. The next season they began building a new nest, but one of the pair died. The survivor has found a new mate. The pair is often seen along the Connecticut River in the vicinity of Herricks Cove, but to date still has not successfully raised a chick.

The Peregrine Falcon and Osprey are success stories. Like the Bald Eagle, both raptors were severely impacted by DDT which thinned their egg shells, resulting in nesting failure. Throughout their eastern range they were on the brink of extinction, particularly the Peregrine Falcon. They have recovered through management efforts, and were confirmed in multiple blocks.

A Sandhill Crane pair nested in wetlands near Bristol; this was the first record of this species breeding in Vermont.

Comparing the second atlas to the first atlas, a few of the gainers are: Tufted Titmouse - 109/9; Carolina Wren - 18/2; Peregrine Falcon - 20/0; Merlin - 2/0; Red-bellied Woodpecker - 20/0. The titmouse, wren, and woodpecker in this list are all southern species which have been extending their range northward. The first breeding record of the Red-bellied Woodpecker was in Brattleboro in 2001; it has been rapidly expanding its range. It is now most common in Windham County and the Champlain Valley. The movement of southern species northward is often attributed to the warming of the climate; natural adaptability and habitat availability are also important factors.

The Merlin is an anomaly. This falcon breeds across Canada and Alaska (except arctic regions). In recent years, however, it has been expanding its breeding range southward. As yet, there are no documented reasons for the expansion, but adaptability and food are probably factors in some way. Its presence is certainly welcome in Vermont.

Also comparing the second atlas to the first atlas, a few of the losers are: Upland Sandpiper - 1/15; Common Nighthawk - 1/15; Vesper Sparrow - 6/28.

Looking at Windham County, in the first atlas Tufted Titmouse was found in only three blocks; in the second atlas it was found in 14 blocks (9 confirmed). In the first atlas, Eastern Meadowlark was found in 7 blocks; in the second atlas it was found in only one block. There was a similar pattern for the Eastern Towhee: first atlas - 17 blocks, second atlas - 3 blocks, no confirmations.

This was a pattern throughout the state. Species associated with grassland or early successional habitats (e.g. meadowlark and towhee) showed range contractions. They are holding their own in the Champlain Valley, but elsewhere in the state the reversion of farmland to forest has greatly reduced suitable habitat.

Common Nighthawks and Chimney Swifts have become dependent on human structures for nesting (flat gravel roofs and unused chimneys) and both showed marked decline, perhaps reflective of the change in roofing materials and in chimney construction.

Biologists are beginning to analyze the wealth of data, producing summary tables and distribution maps, and writing species accounts. The VBBA Database can be accessed through the website of Vermont Center for Ecostudies, www.vtecostudies.org. - “Wildlife Research.”

Good birding.

Material for this article came from the Vermont Fish & Wildlife Department newsletter, “Natural Heritage Harmonies,” Winter, 2008, and from “Field Notes,” the newsletter of the Vermont Center for Ecostudies, Winter, 2008.

One More Colorful Blackbird

The river of grass stretched in all directions before us, broken occasionally by a cluster of shrubs or pines growing on a slight rise in the flat landscape. The sun had just risen above the horizon; its low rays cast a golden glow on the dry sawgrass.

With lowered windows, we crept slowly along the park road, the only ones out so early on the April morning. Distantly I heard a song greeting the sunrise: Wee’he See’ee you.

“Listen,” I said, and again the song traveled over the river of grass: Wee’he See’ee you. We looked at one another; together we said, “Meadowlark.”

We pulled over and climbed out, wondering whether we could find the maker of that ephemeral song: Wee’he See’ee you. It came from my left, but then another answered from the right, and yet another more distantly. I found him even before I raised my binoculars - a bright yellow spot atop a tiny bush in the sea of golden yellow grass. A plump Eastern Meadowlark, bright yellow breast with a black vee thrust forward, head and beak tilted upward, sang his “Spring of the year” song: Wee’he See’ee you.

I don’t see meadowlarks often. They are birds of grasslands and farmlands, and as the forest has reclaimed Vermont, the meadowlark has lost habitat. They are still found in the Champlain Valley, but the recent breeding bird atlas in Vermont did not confirm any nesting meadowlarks in Windham County. Standing on the park road in Everglades National Park and hearing their song from multiple directions was a treat. It cleared the last remaining night fog from the mind and left us without words.

The meadowlark is not a lark, though many think it sings like one, and that explains its name. It has sometimes been called meadow starling, because its shape, posture and behavior resembles that of a starling. But it is not a starling. The meadowlark is a blackbird, in the family, Icteridae, the family of grackles, orioles, bobolinks and even real blackbirds.

Like grassland birds, it hides its presence with its nondescript brown streaked back. It can be easily missed as it forages through the grass. When approached too closely, it bursts into flight, and then it might be identified by its stumpy, flared tail with white outer feathers.

But then comes the spring of the year, and the meadowlark - the males - perch atop fence posts, a scrawny shrub, a utility wire, a bare branch, or any other elevated perch. The bright yellow breast with the black pendant vee becomes prominent, and the “high, plaintive, and somewhat wistfully whistled Wee’he See’ee you” (Dunne) carries across the hayfield, the pasture, the grassy plain, or on our April morning, the Everglades’ river of grass.

Early science thought the Eastern Meadowlark was, in fact, related to the starling, but beyond that there was little logic about the name assigned to it in 1758: Sturnella magna. Sturn comes from the Latin for starling; -ella from the Latin for little. Hence the genus name means “little starling.” The species name, magna, means large. So the meadowlark’s scientific name in translation means “large little starling.” I share this with you in case you were thinking that scientific names are intended to be descriptive or make sense. Under the nomenclature rule of priority, that we are forever stuck with the nonsense name.

Just to take the name situation a little further: the Eastern Meadowlark has a close relative known, logically, as the Western Meadowlark, since it tends to be a western species. Its scientific name is Sturnella neglecta, “neglected.” Audubon so named the Western Meadowlark in 1844 as a protest against the ornithologists whom he felt were guilty of dilly-dallying about the identify of this western bird.

Unlike so many of the blackbirds, the affection for the meadowlark seems almost always positive. When Audubon writes about the “Meadow Lark, or Meadow Starling,” he rhapsodizes for several long pages. “The prudent and enlightened farmer,” Audubon writes, “mindful of the benefit his meadows have received from the destruction of thousands of larvae, which might have greatly injured his grass, disturbs it not, and should he find its nest while cutting his hay, he leaves the tuft in which it is placed.”

In a similar vein, Bent’s Life History begins: “The meadowlark is the outstanding and the most characteristic bird of the American farm. It is revered by the farmer not only because of its charming simplicity and its cheerful, spirited song, but also for its usefulness as a destroyer of harmful insects and the seeds of obnoxious weeds.”

Unfortunately, modern farming requires several hay cuttings, which means early cutting, and employs large machinery with little chance to avoid the secreted ground nest of the meadowlark. Add to these challenges the abandonment of much farm land, the return of shrub and forest, and the conversion of farm land to suburban tracts. These factors all combine to make the meadowlark’s spring song a much less common one, and here in southeastern Vermont, an almost non-existent song.

It is challenging for the meadowlark in many parts of the east, but not bleak. A few weeks ago I took an early morning walk through Pennsylvania farmlands outside of Philadelphia. Housing developments are pushing hard against this countryside, but farming continues. Most fields already had their first hay cutting, so I was not surprised that Bobolinks were absent. Even so, from the far side of one pasture I heard the spring song of a meadowlark. A couple of days later I stood, as I try to do every year, in a coastal tidal marsh along the Delaware Bay. The song of the meadowlark floated through the air.

We returned to the Everglades very early the next morning, this time to walk a trail through an open southern pine forest. It was an area where turkey, bluebirds, and Brown-headed Nuthatch were beginning to become reestablished. We heard name calling Bobwhite, and turned a bend in the trail to see one strutting before us. But the real delight, again, was the singing of the grassland bird: Wee’he See’ee you ... “Wee’he See’ee you. All along the trail, meadowlarks were proclaiming their territory, defending their prerogatives, intent on the task of extending their species to the next generation.

One flew from the grass to a bare branch above my head. Briefly he paused and posed. His profile and beak looked like that of so many blackbirds. But his yellow chest glowed in the morning sun. He lifted his head and song poured forth - a song about the season, and the joy of life.

Good birding.

The Bobolink and Robert of Lincoln

Alfred Cleveland Bend was of the opinion that “bobolink” derived from an abbreviation of “Robert of Lincoln, a classic poem by William Cullen Bryant written in 1864. Ernest Choate (American Bird Names) finds that this is “hardly creditable. It likely originated in imitation of the bird’s unpatterned bubbling song ...” Since Audubon in the 1840s knew it to be a “bobolink” in New York, it would certainly seem that the name preceded the poem. Nevertheless, the poem is quite delightful.
Merrily swinging on brier and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers,
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,
Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;
White are his shoulders and white his crest
Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Look, what a nice coat is mine.
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,
Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
Passing at home a patient life,
Broods in the grass while her husband sings
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Brood, kind creature; you need not fear
Thieves and robbers while I am here.
Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy is she;
One weak chirp is her only note.
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Never was I afraid of man;
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!
Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-linl,
Spink, spank, spink;
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work, and silent with care;
Off is his holiday garment laid,
Half forgotten that merry air:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Nobody knows but my mate and I
Where our nest and out nestlings lie.
Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows;
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink;
When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
Chee, chee, chee.

Colorful Blackbirds - the Baltimore Oriole

Remember the old nursery rhyme about four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie? “When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing. Now wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?”

You may very well wonder what the attraction of singing blackbirds would be. The blackbirds we hear around us are anything but accomplished singers. The squeaks, rattles, cronks, and crinks of the redwings, grackles, or cowbirds would be pleasing only to the most tone-deaf, or perverse, of monarchs.

However, the blackbirds of the rhyme are the (Common) Blackbirds of Europe. The Blackbird of Europe is a thrush, and like all thrushes, it has a rich repertoire that would be pleasing to the most discriminating of monarchs. So it is understandable why the blackbirds sang, undoubtedly in delight at somehow having survived being baked in a the pie.

When the English colonists settled on the shores of North America they saw many new birds. Many of these birds were somewhat similar to the birds they knew back home in England, so they gave the New World birds those Old World names. The blackbirds are one such example of superficially similar birds being named for an Old World bird.

New World blackbirds are, in fact, completely unrelated to the Old World Common Blackbird, or to any other Old World bird. New World blackbirds are in their own family and are found only in the Western Hemisphere. There are currently 103 species classified in the Icteridae family. Icteridae comes from a Greek word meaning “jaundiced,” or yellowish. (I have no idea why that name was applied to the family.)

I have developed a recent fascination with the blackbirds. You may very well wonder why. They are often noisy and aggressive. The male Red-winged may have flashy epaulets, but the species is so common that in many places it is considered a pest; even bird lovers often regard it as a “dirt” bird. The Brown-headed Cowbird is a brood parasite - regarded as lazy, voracious, and ugly; it is one of the birds that birders love to hate.

But ... not all blackbirds are completely black, and some in the blackbird family (Icteridae) are accomplished singers. Another instance of misnaming will quickly explain this.

When the Catholic followers of the Lord Baltimore settled the colony of Maryland, they encountered a bird which was superficially similar to the Eurasian Golden Oriole (a member of the Oriole family - Oriolidae). The male sported the coat-of-arms colors of their patron - bright orange and black - and so they named the bird in his honor: Baltimore Oriole. (I believe these good Catholics were also responsible for naming a bright red bird the cardinal in honor of the church princes who also wore bright red robes.)

However, the Baltimore Oriole is not an oriole; it is unrelated to any Oriolidae. The Baltimore Oriole is a New World blackbird, an Icteridae.

Most New World orioles are classified in the genus, Icterus, and typically sport yellow or orange plumage. The females are often paler yellow, jaundiced, as their genus name implies.

This year seems to be an especially good year for the Baltimore Oriole. In my neighbor’s fully blossomed apple tree, and in the cherry trees across the road, a spot of orange moves along a branch, pausing for a burst of song. “A thousand orchards are in bloom,” enthused Edward Forbush, “and among their tinted blossoms the resplendent Orioles with songs of joy weave in and out. Ever in New England this beautiful, elegantly formed bird is associated with blooming apple orchards, and with peach and cherry blossoms.”

At least two males are contending for territory and serenading their lady loves in my neighborhood. Adaptable to human presence, they may build their nests in shade trees and wooded residential areas, as well as open woodlands and orchards. I have seen a few Baltimore Oriole nests. The nest is a flimsy looking, hanging pouch, usually at the end of a branch. It is commonly 25-30 feet from the ground. The female builds the nest while the male sings nearby. She also incubates the four eggs (sometimes five or six), while the male sings nearby. The male finally gets into the parenting act when the young hatch; both parents feed the nestlings.

Year after year I have noticed that the Baltimore Orioles seem to vanish during July. Not a note is heard, nor a hint of their presence glimpsed. Then they reappear in August, the males again singing from high in the branches. During their disappearance, Baltimore Orioles undergo a complete moult. They are secretive and quiet. Then just as quickly as they have reappeared after the moult and resumed their song, they disappear again, off on their migration to Central and South America.

I have been especially excited about the Baltimore Orioles this year. In the past I have rarely had a really satisfying look at the orioles. Most times I managed only glimpses of the bright orange male as he moved through leafy branches or sang near the top of a tree. This year, however, the first male to return to the neighborhood came to the suet feeder. Then he was joined by a second male. Only a few feet outside my kitchen window, I watched them replenish their fat reserves from the suet basket.

This in turn prompted me to put out orange halves. I have tried attracting orioles with oranges in the past. The oranges eventually dried out and turned moldy, but the orioles never came close. This year the orioles came to the oranges immediately, and for over a week it seemed that I was replacing the picked apart orange on a daily basis.

Now, however, this brightly colored blackbird is turning its attention to the business of breeding and nesting. There will be much to keep him occupied for the next month or so.

People who say they don’t like blackbirds are wrong! Most blackbird haters love the Baltimore Oriole, and the Baltimore Oriole is a blackbird. Its plumage is so brilliant, that it has been called the golden robin, the fire bird, or the fire-hang bird.

If you were confused by the bird names and relationships at the beginning, here is a brief recap: the Old World oriole is an oriole, unlike the New World oriole which is a blackbird, unlike the Old World blackbird which is a thrush, like the American Robin.

The blackbirds in the pie were thrushes, and thrushes are accomplished singers. But I daresay that the New World blackbird I am listening to outside of my window at this moment is also a very accomplished singer. He is handsome and brilliant in the bright colors that once adorned Lord Baltimore’s coat-of-arms.

Good birding!

Birds and Storms in Cape May

About two weeks ago I was in southern New Jersey, in Cape May, visiting some family. On that May Monday, a “November” nor’easter struck the Jersey coast: Heavy rain, 40 mile per hour winds that gusted to 70, warning of coastal tidal flooding. By mid-morning, schools were dismissing so busses could get children home before high tide. By mid-afternoon, tolls were lifted on bridges and roads so residents could evacuate the coast. It was foul! Give me a Vermont blizzard any time.

I made one brief excursion outside and noted, in passing, that the intracoastal salt marshes which lie between the barrier islands and the mainland, were completely flooded. I wondered how the marsh dwelling birds were faring. Severe weather often takes a toll on birds.

Tuesday was a glorious spring day and I was out birding early. I wondered whether I would see any signs of the unusually severe spring storm. Cape May is located on the north shore of a body of water that migrating songbirds cross during the night. Sometimes such a place has a “fall-out.” Birds fly north into a strong head-wind. They are so exhausted that as soon as they reach land they “fall out” of the sky and begin feeding to replenish their depleted fat reserves. Some birders relish such a fall-out when any tree might contain a dozen warblers frantically looking for food. I have often thought that such relishment is a bit perverse - that birders could take such joy in seeing birds in such extremity.

There was no fall-out on the day after the storm. The migrants that may have waited out the storm on the southern shore of the Delaware Bay, probably flew during the night. Although the winds were still brisk and from the north, they were not overwhelming. The migrants would have crossed the few miles of open water and then kept on going, touching down when daylight came somewhere in the pine forests of southern New Jersey. Then refueling, they would resume their journey to Vermont.

So I did not see a warbler fall-out as a result of the storm. There was the occasional down tree, the broken branches, lots of leaf litter, but no exhausted little songbirds nearly dead on the wing. Instead, the birds were back doing what they needed to do. They had hunkered down in some sheltered spot. Now they were singing! ... carrying nesting materials, chasing away another male or chasing after a female. And I had a grand time.

As a by the way: Cape May has a well-deserved reputation as one of the premier bird watching places in North America. It is a destination for serious birders from around the world. Every time I have birded in Cape May I have encountered people from beyond North America. On the other hand, as I have wandered the many wildlife management areas, I have almost always encountered someone who says in passing, “Boy, it’s slow today.” Go figure.

I saw most of the warblers that I would also expect to see in Vermont, but the real attraction of a spring trip to Cape May is to see the birds whose summer range does not normally extend as far north as our forests: flashy southern species like the brightly throated Yellow-throated Warbler - or the brilliant swamp dwelling Prothonotary Warbler with its orange-yellow head and breast - or the black-cowled, yellow bodied Hooded Warbler - or even the drab, sparrow-colored Worm-eating Warbler.

Probably my favorite southern warbler is the Yellow-breasted Chat. Except for its flashy yellow breast, the chat doesn’t look or sound anything like a warbler. It’s big - roughly tanager sized, with a large, un-warbler-like beak. It has big white spectacles on its eyes. It tends to hide in bushes and chatter away like a thrasher or catbird. Since it is spring, I saw it climb to the tree tops and sing, if you can somehow call its mockingbird, catbird like noise a song.

On the third day after the storm, we interrupted our trip home with a stop at the Brigantine unit of the Forsyth National Wildlife Refuge north of Atlantic City. With coastal marshes, fresh and saltwater impoundments, scrub, forest and field, it is one of my favorite birding places.

In early April, I spent half a day in the refuge, much of it watching a pair of Osprey going through their courtship rituals and remodeling their nest. On this trip, she was incubating; he was watching alertly from a nearby perch, ignoring her constant calling.

Along the edge of a muddy channel, a Clapper Rail emerged from the grasses. Often heard but seldom seen, this shy and elusive marsh hen was joined by a second bird, and we watched their courtship rituals until they slipped discretely back among the grasses.

On the far side of the eight mile refuge drive, we stopped to watch a young Great Black-backed Gull troubling with something in the shallow waters. Feathery and black with a long neck and long beak, we speculated that the gull was feeding on a cormorant. The black-backed is a big bird, and gulls are notorious nest robbers. But it seemed early for cormorants to be nesting, and this did not seem to be a small cormorant, like a hatchling, that the gull was dealing with. When I tried to approach for a closer look, the gull carried off his prize.

A short distance further on, a Herring Gull was trying to tear apart a similar carcass, and just beyond, another black-backed had yet another. All appeared to be cormorants. Ahead of me on the road, crows were working on a couple of dark objects. They flew as I approached on foot. The two carcasses were fresh, not yet picked clean, but with the choice viscera and meaty chest gone. Both were Clapper Rails. Nearby a pair of Turkey Vultures waited impatiently for me to return to the car.

The scavengers were at work, cleaning up after the spring storm. It was a bonanza for them. We saw half a dozen carcasses in a short distance. How many more were scattered through the marsh grasses? We saw only the large birds. What was the silent toll on small songbirds?

We see the beauty of nature. We marvel at the grace of a heron in flight, the delicate plumes of an egret, the bubbly enthusiasm of a singing songbird, the brilliant color of a warbler, the antics of a nuthatch, the sweetness of a chickadee. We may marvel at the dash of an accipiter, providing it does not consume its prey - one of our feeder birds - within our line of sight. And when the rain and wind rage, or the temperature drops, we wrap ourselves in the protective cocoon of our home, beyond sight or thought of creatures which must endure. We seldom look on the other side of the rose glasses, and when we do, we do so quickly, ignoring the harsh and unlovely.

Life is not all sweetly singing songbirds and colorful warblers. There is a lesson in those scavengers picking apart the cormorants and rails killed by the storm. I am not exactly sure what the lesson is, but my gut tells me it is a lesson I should not ignore. Perhaps I should pass over the bird books above my desk, and turn for a time to a theologian or philosopher.

Chasing Birds in the Florida Keys

In mid-April, I was in the Florida Keys looking for birds. I had certain “target birds” which I hoped to see. They fell into two categories. The hard to get to, easy to see birds were the ones that required a two hour boat trip to the Dry Tortugas. I’ve written about these the last two weeks, so you’ll have to dig out your old newspapers.

The easy to get to hard to find birds were the ones accessible by car. The American Birding Association publishes a series of bird finding guides. I was using (obviously) A Birder’s Guide to Florida by Bill Pranty. The ABA guides provide very precise directions to the best birding spots within the volume’s area, along with maps and whatever other information might be useful to the bird seeker. So I knew where my target species might be found and I knew how to get to those places.

In addition, the Florida Keys are easy to navigate. US 1 runs their length to Key West. There are a few roads off of US 1 on some of the larger keys, but not many. So finding the spots was easy.

Finding the birds was another matter. I missed two of the birds I hoped to see. The Mangrove Cuckoo is even more secretive than the Black-billed and Yellow-billed Cuckoos which sometimes summer in our region and may or may not be seen depending upon the tree caterpillar supply which is their major food source. Plus, the Mangrove Cuckoo lives in mangrove swamps, not easy places to gain access to, though boardwalks in various parks help with the access. I went to many of the places where they purportedly could be seen. I even swallowed my principle of not harassing birds by using song recordings, and played a song recording in the hope that a jealous male might respond. But no success. Mangrove Cuckoos are difficult to locate, require lots of patience, and some luck. So missing the cuckoo was not a surprise.

Nor was it a particular surprise that I missed the Antillean Nighthawk, a close relative of the northern nesting Common Nighthawk. Nighthawks are best seen and heard at dusk. Dusk is my bedtime. Need I say more?

The White-crowned Pigeon is a Florida Keys specialty. Don’t let the “pigeon” part turn you off. This bird still retains all of its wildness. All of the guidebooks talked of the difficulty of seeing this species. The White-crowned Pigeon forages, roosts, and breeds in the tree tops. It is shy and hard to approach. It is most likely to be seen when it flies out of, or into, its nighttime roost, or when it is flushed by something. All of this means that the sightings may be fleeting.

None of these characteristics boded well, although we went to many of the places where it was known to roost, scanned the tree tops of likely foraging locations, and watched for pigeons flying overhead. There are never any guarantees when looking for birds, and I did not expect any with the pigeon.

I took my camera with me when we went for dinner in Key West. We had to see some of the tourist things, and I feel obliged to take some of the tourist-type pictures. There were a few birds to be see, as well: Brown Pelicans on the harbor piers, Ruddy Turnstones on the docks, and Red Junglefowl scavenging among the tables of the restaurant. The junglefowl are still considered feral chickens even though they have been managing on their own on the southernmost keys since the early 1800s.

Late evening as we walked back to our hotel, I noticed a pigeon perched on a power line, then looked more closely. Our binoculars were in our room, so the camera zoom provided the confirmation. It was a White-crowned Pigeon. I managed a couple of adequate photographs, and then it flew. One never knows where a target bird will appear.

The Gray Kingbird is fairly common in the Florida Keys and proved to be the least challenging of our target birds. It looks like a bulked up Eastern Kingbird, a Barry Bonds on steroids. We weren’t even looking for it when we saw one perched on a power line. Leaving our hotel in Key West in the early morning, we heard its noisy chatter from high in a tree.

This brings me to the Black-whiskered Vireo. We went to the end of the road on No Name Key in the Key Deer National Wildlife Refuge. Key deer, small versions of the white-tailed deer, grazed on the road side. We explored the shoreline, watched diminutive Least Terns and robust Royal Terns resting. Along the road we located the White-eyed Vireo which was singing and then heard what we thought was another, but different vireo. In the car, we listened to the identical song on the track of the Black-whiskered Vireo. Then we began the quest for a glimpse.

The Black-whiskered Vireo is a close relative of our Red-eyed Vireo, and like our Red-eyed Vireo it often sings and forages in the thick foliage in the middle and top of trees. There are times when our vireo can be notoriously difficult to see. The Black-whiskered Vireo was just like our Red-eyed. We heard it here; we looked for some movement among the leaves. We saw no movement; we saw nothing fly. But now it sang from a tree to the left, and then a hundred yards down the road. It was in a tree right on the edge of the road; we saw a bird fly further from the road and sing like the vireo.

Two days later in the early morning we were on a different key looking (unsuccessfully) for the Mangrove Cuckoo. Prairie Warblers sang from prominent perches. A junglefowl ambled by to see if we had any crumbs to share. Black-and-White Warblers and White-eyed Vireos sang. So did a Black-whiskered Vireo. In between good looks at the other warblers and vireo, we searched for the elusive Black-whiskered Vireo - in this tree, and then that, down the road and up the road, and now back again in this tree. Pete Dunne calls the Black-whiskered Vireo a “canopy bugaboo,” and I have no argument with that.

But then ... typical of the vireos ... the Black-whiskered Vireo suddenly came out of hiding. They (more than one) paused on a branch, stayed still, sang and posed for us. They looked like washed out Red-eyes, but one perched on an open branch, lifted his head and sang for us, showing the thin, black whisker on his chin which gives him his name. For a long time (at least a couple of minutes) the vireos stayed in the open - probably a couple of males were disputing among themselves about whose tree they were in and who would win the affections of the lady. That is what spring is about, at least among the birds.

Of the target species, the Black-whiskered Vireo was the most satisfying. We found it without anyone’s help, first identifying it by its unfamiliar song. We had to work for a sighting, but when we finally achieved the sighting, it was not a “BLD” (better look desired). We saw the washed out color, the eye strip, the dark eye (not a red-eye) and the black-whisker. It was good birding.

More Birding on the Dry Tortugas

The Dry Tortugas have a reputation for superb spring birding. In addition to the nesting colonies of tropical seabirds which I wrote about last week, these tiny spots of land in the Gulf of Mexico are a resting place for migrating birds.

Eventually I tore my gaze from the clouds of Sooty Terns over Bush Key, the perching Brown Noddies, and the whisper-like flight of the Magnificent Frigatebirds, and began exploring other parts of Garden Key and Fort Jefferson.

On the pilings of the old pier, Royal Terns perched regally, along with several Black-bellied Plovers, most still coming into the breeding plumage which gives them their name. A single Whimbrel briefly showed its long, down-curved bill before tucking it beneath a wing and dozing off in the warm mid-day sun. On the sandy shore, a pair of Ruddy Turnstones, like the plovers not yet into their variegated breeding plumage, turned over stones and seaweed in search of food. A single Spotted Sandpiper flew from the beach where a pair of Brown Pelicans were preening. A Sandwich Tern alighted briefly near the pelicans.

I turned from my vantage point and began walking through the campground. A woman came from around the copse of trees. “Did you see the owl?” she asked with quiet excitement. “It went this way.”

I fell in step beside her. A few yards on, we paused. Perched in the grass was a Short-eared Owl, the West Indian race of this wide-spread species that I have now seen from Massachusetts to the Hawaiian Islands to a remote speck of Florida. This time, however, I could clearly see the short feather tufts which are mis-named “ears,” and which give the owl its name. After a few minutes, it became tired of being stared at and flew off around the walls of the fort.

Inside the walls of Fort Jefferson, the old parade ground is now a grassy expanse with a scattering of trees and shrubs and the reputation for being a spring-time birding hotspot. Most of the visitors to the National Park missed this quiet attraction. There had been no strong weather fronts so there was no songbird fall-out with birds dripping from trees. As the majority of visitors wandered about the old gun emplacements and strolled the top of the fortress walls, they probably wondered about the couple dozen people skulking about with binoculars and spy glasses on tripods or stretched lazily on the grass staring at a tree.

When I first walked into the parade ground, two things caught my attention. Cattle Egrets stalked through the grass. Accustomed to following cattle and eating the insects which the hooves stir up, these long-legged waders were wading the short grass in search of scarce insects. There are few insects on the keys of the Dry Tortugas, and the Cattle Egrets which stop at Fort Jefferson find such slim sustenance that they sometimes take to chasing, and taking, songbirds instead. These Cattle Egrets stayed in the grass, were wary whenever someone began approaching them, and occasionally found something to eat. At least, I did not see them pursing songbirds. They were in breeding plumage with rusty orange patches on the head, back, and neck. Immigrants from Africa to the Western Hemisphere in the late 1800s, they are now widespread in North America and expanding in other parts of the world.

The Cattle Egrets were not stalking songbirds, but songbirds and shorebirds were not free of danger. A dark, fast moving, pointed wing silhouette swept over the walls, circled the parade ground rapidly, and landed on the top of a tree. At the Putney Mountain hawk watch a dark, fast moving, here-and-gone hawk which prompts a “What was that?” reflex ... is a Merlin. On the top a tree in the middle of the Fort Jefferson parade ground, I focused my scope on a Merlin, perched erect and alert. For the next couple of hours this small falcon flew about the fortress walls and returned to perch. It was an adult male, an experienced hunter, and sooner or later he would return with food in his talons.

The same pattern with intervals of hunting and rest was followed by the Short-eared Owl, which used a tree on the other side of the parade ground as its operational base. This past winter, I watched a Short-eared Owl on Plum Island as it defined, on its own, a day of good birding. The owl and the Merlin would have easily made this day at Dry Tortugas National Park a day of good birding. But remember, they came after the hordes of Sooty Terns, the perching Brown Noddies, and the whisper-like flight of the Magnificent Frigatebirds had already defined the day as a good birding day.

The birding wasn’t over, but it did mellow down. I was finally able to turn my attention to the trees and shrubs harboring the songbirds. The numbers and variety were not great, but each different species was something of a surprise, a discovery, often a welcome anticipation what would be awaiting me when I returned to Vermont: Black-and-white and Yellow-rumped Warblers, Northern Parula, Ruby-throated Hummingbird, Eastern Kingbird.

In our northern climes, we don’t pay much attention to doves or pigeons. They are all Mourning Doves or Rock Pigeons. But in southern Florida there are at least three other doves and pigeons, plus tropical vagrants that might show up at any time. The dove atop a tree in the parade ground warranted a closer look, and gave me my first White-winged Dove since my last visit near a southern border.

As the sun climbed high and the day wore on, I adopted a different birding tactic. Instead of wandering around looking for birds, I found a shady spot beneath a tree with a good view of the bird fountain. I sat and let the birds come to me. It is an effective tactic, maybe more effective than barging about and disturbing the birds.

It worked. A Black-and-white Warbler foraged along a tree branch in its upside-down, nuthatch-like manner. A Palm Warbler wagged his tail in Palm Warbler fashion, causing me to mentally reminisce about the tail-wagging Eastern Phoebe which had begun singing outside my bedroom window just before I left for Florida.

Blackpolls came close. I know them as denizens of the high elevation spruce forests, one of the last migrants to pass through the Connecticut River valley where I usually do my birding. Here they were on a tropical island a few feet above sea level. I had to look twice to be sure I was identifying them correctly.

Seabirds, shorebirds, songbirds, raptors - all capped off with a period of lazy semi-somnolent birding - the Dry Tortugas provided a day of excellent spring birding.

New Arrivals

Indigo Bunting made his first appearance this morning.


I saw the White-crowned Sparrow along the Connecticut River yesterday. Today one stopped by for some free seed.

Becoming rather common in the Connecticut River Valley, the Red-breasted Woodpecker is beginning to expand into the out-lying areas of Windham County. This handsome male spent most of the day visiting the feeder; other times he was "singing" in the trees.

Mustn't forget the Evening Grosbeaks busy with their pairing up.


And a follow-up on the Baltimore Orioles. Females are beginning to appear and the males are giving more and more time to singing and less time to feeding on the oranges. They flit around, but I haven't seen them lingering today as they did the previous several days.

Good Birding!!