"In The Crows Of Passion" - Dickcissel Delight

     This delightful, and unusual bird showed up in my yard last week at my bird feeders. It is a Dickcissel, a name that unfortunately revs the purient thinking of the twelve year old boy latent in most grown men. No offense, anyone, but we did all go there, didn't we? Your answer is probably best kept between you and your god.
     The Dickcissel gets its name from its flight call, described by some as like a 'raspberry,' or Bronx cheer. You know - that sound you can make by putting your mouth to the inside of your elbow, sealing your lips to your skin and blowing. I've known people in my life who could put one hand under an armpit and squeeze air out making the buzzing sound that Dickcissels make. That was long before I knew about Dickcissels, but the talent always deeply impressed me. Within the next twenty-four hours, when you are in the privacy of your own homes, I'm betting that you will try that out, too. If you choose to do it in public, I can assure you that we women will be paying more attention to you now than when you were in Junior High School. And, you may attract some birds, as well. Dickcissels do have a song,  a simple, dry, "dick, dick, ciss, ciss, ciss" and a call that's a dry, single "chek." 
     Dickcissels are not common in Maine, though a fair number have been sighted this year, many of them along the coast. Their breeding habitat is fields in Midwestern North America. They migrate in large flocks to southern Mexico, Central America, and northern South America. They do occur as vagrants well outside of their normal range which is how they happen to be here. They forage on the ground mainly eating insects and seeds. Outside of the nesting season, they usually feed in flocks. They are considered a pest by farmers in some regions because flocks can consume large quantities of cultivated grains. In Venezuela where they winter, farmers poison them.
     They nest near the ground in dense grasses or small shrubs, or up to 3–4 ft high in bushes and trees. The one I photographed at our house was eating on spillage from feeders and did not fly higher up than ten feet into the shrubs.  Males may have up to six mates, with most attracting only one or two, and several failing to attract any mates at all. If only they had known about blowing a fart sound on the inside of their elbow, their averages might be better.  If these "bachelors" survive until the following summer, they will get another try to attract females, as the partners only stay together for raising one brood. Dickcissels are thus one of the few songbirds that are truly polygamous. When they leave for the winter what little pair bond existed during the summer is broken up. In preparation for fall migration, Dickcissels begin assembling in larger and larger flocks that gradually coalesce into flocks of thousands. Winter roosts can number into the millions of birds.
Nearly all Dickcissels winter far south of their breeding range. But, individual Dickcissels frequently turn up far from the normal range, often joining in with House Sparrow flocks. This fellow in my photos was, in fact with a mixed flock of sparrows, mostly Swamp and White-throated.
     I first noticed this bird, while still in bed. I can see a feeder from there and I have binoculars at my bedside. When I got up for a closer look, of course it was gone. I wasn't sure if what I had seen was the Dickcissel I surmised or not, as I had never seen one before (Though technically, I was wearing less than a bathrobe, I am still counting this as a Bathrobe Birding event). Later in the day, while working around my yard, I heard its unique farting sound. Ruling out my husband, I was able to  find the bird in the shrubs. I was over the moon ecstatic!
     The problem for me with seeing unusual birds or simply ones that are totally new to me is that I always want more. I can imagine what it must be like for a crack addict to be Jonesing for a fix. After seeing the Dickcissel, I kept hoping it would come back, looked for it over and over and listened to every sound in the woods and air. But it did not come back. Neuro chemically, I was awash in 'gotta-have-it" juices. Just when I thought it was over and I was calming down; I heard it: some unusual sound in the trees. I grabbed my camera and began sneaking around in the bushes, hoping against hope, my heart pounding, my hands trembling. But, alas, it was just a tricky crow mimicking something, perhaps indeed the Dickcissel. Crows can be very  clever with their mimicry  and more than once have sent me hunting in vane for a rarer bird than they. They have, indeed, flung me into "the crows of passion."

My Friend Flicka - Northern Flicker

This Northern Flicker is female. Males have a black moustache.

     My parents had some knowledge of birds, which they imparted to us as children. Though declared with conviction, their information was frequently inaccurate. Additionally, my mother had an intense Maine accent which gave her "facts" another interesting twist. She often dropped 'Rs' and added them into words where they were not.

     Listening to what my parents said, then parroting it back to them, was a necessary skill I developed early on. I revered them and all that they said, plus, it was imperative that they be pleased. Regardless of anyone's motivations, I did develop an above average interest in birds which has carried me on an ever growing wave into adulthood. To be completely accurate, I should say my interest has continued well into middle age. Though I'm that old, I can still hear my parents in my head like it was yesterday. I can clearly hear my mother in my mind every time I see a Northern Flicker.
     On seeing a Northern Flicker, my mother would shout enthusiastically, "Look! There's a Flick'a!" I have to confess that until I was well into my thirties, I thought that bird was a "Flick'a," not a Flick-er. Confident that I knew the bird, I never actually looked it up. Had I, I would have seen the 'r' at the end. Compounding my youthful confusion was a TV show. During the late fifties through the mid sixties, there was a popular TV series, "My Friend Flicka." It was based on a novel written in 1941 by Mary O'Hara about a boy and his horse. I'm sure you remember this, whether you want to admit it or not. Look in the mirror, you too are probably at least as old as I am. The horse's name was Flicka, which in Swedish means "little girl." Of course, in my house, the horse's name was "Flick-er" The mispronouciation of the bird's name and the horse's name was a confusing jumble of information delivered to me during my formative years. Worse yet, I have terrible survivor guilt, because I have repeated all of that misinformation many times over to many people, including my own children and did so with my mother's same imperious conviction. Please forgive me, I just didn't know. I hope I didn't drive anyone to psychotherapy or ruin any one's life.

     The Flick'a is a medium-sized woodpecker that's native to most of North America, parts of Central America, Cuba and the Cayman Islands. The Caymans had a lovely postage stamp with an image of a Flick'a. Unlike most woodpeckers, Flick'as prefer to feed on the ground. Ants make up most of their diet. Their tongue extends two inches beyond the bill and has barbs for pulling ants out of their holes. They are often seen on lawns poking in the grass for insects. Flick'as are also one of the few woodpecker species that migrate. Because they migrate, there are more of them here now than all summer long. They have a loping flight, common amongst woodpeckers. When they fly, the yellow tail feathers and undersides of their wings that gives them the name "Yellow-Shafted Flicker" can be seen. The Yellow-shafted are common in the eastern U.S., but in the west, there are Red-shafted Flickers. It was once believed that the Yellow-shafted and Red -shafted were different species. They are, however, both Northern Flickers. Where their ranges overlap, they hybridize. There are over 100 common names for the Northern Flicker. Among them are: Yellowhammer, clape, gaffer woodpecker, heigh-ho, harry-wicket, wake-up, walk-up, wick-up, yarrup, and gawker bird. Many of these names are attempts at imitating some of its calls. I'll add that in Maine, we call it a Flick'a.

Everything But Snow - Snowy Egrets, Piermen And L.L. Bean

Migrating Snowy egrets

The weather has been very unsettled the past few days. It has changed from beaming sunshine to pouring rain several times during the course of each day. Last night, there was a rainbow to the east after a deluge of rain. It cleared up for a few minutes and then rained again. When the sun has come out, it's been beastly hot. The birds know the season is changing and are congregating to migrate. We are definitely in a fall weather pattern, though so far, it has done everything but snow.  

     The weather hasn't been the only thing unsettled around here. We've had a crew working on the pilings on our pier. That has involved men showing up around the tides, not necessarily times when I want people around. They've been hauling, pulling, yanking, yelling, and swearing over the racket of chainsaws, massive drills, Sawzalls and a bellowing generator. Twenty foot 8x8 timbers have been slung over the pier deck then hoisted by hand into place, a harrowing process to watch - one wrong move could easily kill someone. This would be enough to fray any reasonable person's nerves. But, if it wasn't enough, at the same time we have had a photography crew here doing a photo shoot for a future L.L. Bean catalogue.

     Obviously, we knew they were coming. We've had the timbers for the pier here for weeks, planned around the lowest tides predicted. For a month in advance of  L.L.Bean's arrival, we had been weeding, pruning, repairing, painting and cleaning. The L.L. Bean contact person had insisted that we not do a thing ahead, that they would take care of it. "We'll be bringing people to clean and move things around. We'll take your stuff out of the house and bring our products in. There'll be a dozen or so of us tracking in and out, so don't clean," he told us. I don't think any home owner would listen to that though. I didn't. I wanted everything to look just so and David and I had gone to great lengths to make that happen. We were feeling pretty good about all we had accomplished, too. But, let's not forget that I am a procrastinator.

    In spite of all the work we had done, I had left a couple of days worth of tasks to be jammed into the one day remaining before they came. I still had to pick up piles of papers, magazines and such, straighten slip covers and vacuum. Waiting until the last minute, I hadn't vacuumed in a couple of weeks. And, I'd have to pick up that dish left by the couch. Oh ya, clean the front of the refrigerator. Gross! "And the toilets, don't forget the toilets," I told myself. You know how that goes. The list is endless, but at some point you just have to let it go and figure good enough is good enough. And, I did have one more whole day. It was only Tuesday and they weren't going to be here until 7:30 A.M. on Thursday. 

     As expected, there was a crew of twelve people, fleets of cars and trucks, lighting and camera equipment, load of electronics, wires, cables, boxes, furniture and other home goods, a caterer and tons of equipment.  What I didn't expect was that instead of Thursday morning at 7:30, the whole circus showed up on Wednesday while David and I were still in bed. Oops!

    Mea culpa, the mistake was definitely mine. I had even written the correct days of the week that they were to be here on the calendar. But somehow, I had it in my head that Thursday and Friday were the days, not Wednesday and Thursday. David and I leaped out of bed faster than teenage lovers caught by their parents. You have never seen two people move so fast! And the L.L. Bean man was right: they could not have cared less about the dog hair or dust or crumbs on the couch. They also could not have been nicer people, which was a good thing, since they crawled around every aspect of the house and grounds like ants for two days.

    Oh, and did I mention that the guys were still working on the pier while this was going on? Tide and time wait for no man, nor does a photography crew when the light is good. With that in mind, when David told me that there were twenty Snowy egrets at Lobster Cove, I grabbed my gear and headed for the door. Over my shoulder I hollered to the L.L. Bean crew, "I'll be right back! I gotta go photograph something!" They never looked up from arranging their boat totes and cushions. I'm really glad I went, too. Nothing could have been better for my frayed nerves than this flock of birds. While shooting them, I completely forgot about the mayhem back at my house; all I could see was the fluttering whiteness of wings. The birds made it look as if a soothing snow had fallen after all. It's a good thing, too. I'm  really ready for this frantic summer to be over.

"Look out! I'm comin' in!"

There were twenty Snowies in this flock, though I could only get sixteen in a frame at one time. They were very busy fishing and quite irritable with each other.

The Seamy Side Of Charlotte's Web - Hummingbird Caught In Spider's Web

A female, Ruby-throated Hummingbird in the care of my handsome husband. Some of you know me well enough to ask if the hummingbird is alive. Yes, it's very much alive, and so is my husband.

See the residual spider's web on the bird's wing? She is resting after her ordeal. 

Areneus gemma and her orb web gems.

This isn't merely to gross you out. She's eating a bundle of flies. If she could subdue it, she would bundle and eat a hummingbird the same way.

     The Ruby-throated hummingbird had become ensnared in a spider's web. I happened to find her on my deck. Fearing she was dead, I picked her up, then felt her quiver. Gingerly, I picked away the web. By weight, the web had the strength of steel. The bird could not have been worse off had she been bound up in duct tape. Hummingbirds can die of strokes and heart attacks when frightened badly enough, so I worked quickly. Then, I set her on the end of the stick where she sat long enough for a few photos, and the tender ministrations of my husband. Who's cuter, him or her? Hhhhhmmmm. He's adorable, but I did remind him that the size of his head from her point of view was probably comparable to a meteor barrelling down on him.

     Hummingbirds use spider's web for nest material to affix lichens and mosses to tree branches. They also steal insects from webs for food before the spider gets to them. That's probably what this bird was doing when she got snarled up. In case you feel sorry for the humming bird, remember that the poor spider was a mother to some little spider somewhere.  

     A common, late summer spider here is the orb-weaver Araneus gemma. This large spider is sometimes called the "cat-face", "monkey-face" or "humpback" spider since it has a pattern of dark markings and raised areas on its back that look like a face. I turned the spider upside down on the above left so you can make that out. Now, don't be squeamish. Look at it. It's the same spider that Charlotte's Web  was written about, so how bad can it be?

     Females of this spider are generally rounded with angular 'shoulders' and can reach a size exceeding a quarter. They make webs in undisturbed corners, often near porch lights, and are found in late August and September around the eaves of houses. The spider hangs upside down waiting for prey. She remains in contact with the web via a "trap-line" thread that signals when insects have been ensnared, or perhaps, a hummingbird. When an insect hits the web, the spider rushes to it, bites it, then wraps it up like a burrito. A spider would have to be able to subdue a hummingbird in order to eat it, though technically, it could. More hummingbirds are eaten by Praying Mantises than spiders.

     These spiders are abundant in our yard right now. I counted twelve before I wrote this even after last night's hurricane winds. The webs are round, thus the family name, "orb-weaver," and big - almost two feet across. I admit they are sort of annoying when I walk into them face first. Since they like doorways, this happens frequently. Some people use a broom to clear them away. If you are one of those people, you may now leave the room. Would you whack a Praying Mantis? It's praying, for God's sake! Would you go at Charlie Weaver (may he rest in peace) with a broom? Where do you think he got that name? Orb-weavers lay eggs in a sack that they then carry to someplace that looks good and stuff it where it will later hatch hundreds of baby spiders. Many of them overwinter as tiny spiderettes until spring. The little spiders get around by 'ballooning.' They spin a thread of web then leap into the air where they are carried away on their web tethers. Would you whack at Charlotte or her children? Huh? 

     When I lived in Paraguay, tarantulas were plentiful. Most mornings when I arose, they were sauntering across the floor of my dwelling. Sometimes my cat, employed to keep the rats under control, would be playing hockey with them. The tarantulas would not have killed me if I had been bitten, but they would have killed my cat. Nonetheless, I did not whack at them with a broom. I used a broom to scoop them up and toss them out, even though each morning they returned. They ate a lot of cockroaches, so it seemed fair that I tolerated them. I have put my money where my mouth has been when it's come to putting up with spiders. Now, I must go find my broom so that I can whack at my husband to keep him away from the humming birds.

"Welcome To The Sand Lance Buffet!" Common Terns, Double-crested Cormorants, Harbor Seal

Common Tern with a mouthful of Sand Lances

Common Terns, adults and juveniles feasting on Sand Lances. "Mom! Got any tartar sauce for these?" 

Double-crested Cormorants patrolling for Sand Lances  

Everybody wanted in on that action! This Harbor Seal showed up while I was photographing the birds.

    The same day that I photographed the gulls hawking the ants, there was another kind of feeding frenzy going on in Totman Cove: Welcome to the Sand Lance 'all-you-can-eat' Buffet! Sand Lances are a slim, elongated, schooling fish. Although they are eel-like in their shape and movements, they aren't a true eel. There are eighteen varieties of them found across the globe. They range from eight to eighteen inches long. The ones in these photographs were the short ones. Nonetheless, it would gross me out to be swimming with them. I have a phobia about the bottoms of bodies of water when I can't see what's down there. Just the idea that these creatures could be around my legs creeps me out severely. Give me a clear, swimming pool or at least an actual snake or spider that I can see.
     Sand Lances are an important food for forty-five species of predacious fishes, some invertebrates, twelve species of marine mammals and forty species of birds. I watched seals, ospreys, cormorants, gulls, and terns feeding on them. Even an eagle showed up and lurked in the trees. It didn't try for any of the slithery little fishes, but did seem very interested in all the action. I suppose for an eagle it would be like eating a fistful of French fries, hardly worth the bother. The ospreys that were diving for them were juveniles. The fish, barely visible in the big birds' talons, were probably crushed to mush by the time they got to a perch to consume them. The eagle gave chase to an osprey; gulls and terns chased the eagle and the osprey; terns and gulls dove on the cormorants when they surfaced with the Sand Lances and God only knows what was going on below the surface. See? That's why I don't like swimming in there! Horrible horrors! A person could get mauled in the melee.
     Sand Lances aren't eaten here, but I can imagine them lightly breaded, fried and eaten whole - bones and all like Smelts. Yummy! Now you're talkin'! A generous squeeze of lemon and some home-made tartar sauce, a side of Cajun curly fries and cole slaw............get the nets! I'm ready for 'em. See how easy I am? If I can relate a thing to anything with mayonnaise, I'm okay.

If you would like more scientific information about Sand Lances, click here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sand_lance

If you want recipes, see me on The Food Channel!

No Laughing Matter - Gulls Hawking Ants

 
"Hear me laugh! Hear me roar!" Seriously, folks: to hear me laugh, click here Laughing_Gull/sounds
"It's not sensor dust, swear to God!"
The gull on the bottom right is a Bonaparte's, also called 'Bonnies." The other three are Laughing gulls.

    When birds catch insects in midair, it's called 'hawking.' Hawks actually catch prey with their feet, not their beaks, and they take the prey back to a perch to eat it. Other birds can eat in mid air unless the insect is too big, like a moth or a Cicada. Someone back in birding history thought that the behavior resembled that of hawks. So, that's what it's called.

     In late August each year, I observe Laughing gulls and Common terns, hawking flying ants in mid air. Large colonies of the ants swarm up out of the ground quite suddenly. Born aloft on summer thermals clouds of them fill the sky, land in the swimming pool and catch in my clothing. If our dog goes outside while this is taking place, he comes back in with ant riders on his back, too. Yippee kai-oh, kai-ay!

    This event lasts  for just a few hours at our house, but occurs other places, too. Suddenly, the air is filled with strident gulls whirling around and sounding like inmates at an insane asylum. The gulls rival the acrobatics of swallows in their aerial quest. They twist, turn, spiral, dip, swoop, hover, dive and every maneuver other than curtsy while feasting on the ants. In some of these photos, you can see the flying ants. I know, I know: some of you digital photographers are going to say that those specks are dust on my sensor. Not so. You'll just have to trust me on that. I hate it when people say, "Trust me," like some kind of command. Invariably, whatever statement has bracketed that dictum rarely ever proves totally 'trustworthy.' That said, the specks really are ants. Honest. After all, this is about birding, which is very  serious. I wouldn't kid about that. I would just lie outright. Insert smiley face here. Remember that you can double click on any image on this blog to see more detail. Or, trust me. It's not a laughing matter. 

     Laughing gulls certainly don't think it's funny business, though their vocalizations sound like they are laughing constantly. You can go to the head of the class if you figured out that's where the name came from. Ants are a big part of their diet, though they are omnivorous and  will eat any garbage or other thing they can catch.  Laughing gulls are in the group of "hooded gulls." It's not because they are hoods or thieves, but from their black heads which look like they're wearing hoods. Franklin gulls, Black-headed and Bonaparte's gulls look a lot like them. Franklin and Black-headed gulls are not common here, though Bonaparte's are. And listen, Smarty-pants, Bonaparte was a famous ornithologist in the 1800s. The gulls were named after him, not after the French emperor with his hands stuck in his shirt (though they were related).  

     In Maine, Laughing gulls are migratory. They go to South America and most anywhere that's warmer than here. In other parts of the country, Laughing gulls hang around airports and get into engines of jets causing crashes. This is a big, scary problem if you are a passenger and also if you are a gull. "Measures," are taken to control the gulls' population for this reason. Eliminating the ant colonies is one of the measures. Even though the gulls laugh all the time, no matter where they are, they don't think any of this is funny. 

These are Bonaparte's gulls. "Note the extensive white in the wingtips with the narrow band of black on the trailing edge of the wingtip as opposed to the broad black area in the wingtips of the Laughing Gulls," says birder Jeff Wells. Thanks, Jeff!

"If you're not laughing with me, you're laughing at me!"
This is a Laughing gull. He's laughing because he knows I'm probably going to screw up the identifications of him and his pals.

This is an interesting research paper about Laughing gulls hawking ants and biologists shooting the gulls to check their stomach contents. The gulls were hanging around Kennedy National Airport. Can you imagine gorging yourself at an all-you-can-eat buffet only to have a scientist shoot you to examine your stomach contents? Now that's enough to make you think twice about going up to the bar for that fifth plate, isn't it!  Laughing gull guts or "Temporal Variation in Terrestrial Invertebrate Consumption by Laughing Gulls in New York" is the title. Who's laughing now?

Jeff Wells is a noted Maine birder with a nice web site. He talks about gulls hawking ants here http://www.borealbirds.org/blog/?p=198

If you want to know more about Charles_Lucien_Bonaparte the ornithologist, click on his name.

Paul Garritty also has a nice birding site in Maine. Here's a link to his page on gulls in Maine: mainebirding.net/birds/GullsTerns

Thanks to Wikipedia, allaboutbirds.com and David Allen Sibley's The Sibley Guide To Birds  for some of the information.

"Waiter! There's A Fly In My Soup!" - Barn Swallows Feeding Young

These are Barn swallows. I took these photographs in Phippsburg while sitting in my car. I could have watched them all day, but did not. I realized that sitting on the side of the road, though not  talking on a cell phone made me look like a stalker or a cat burglar casing homes. I didn't even have a cell phone with me, nor lunch, nor anything else that could explain what I was doing had I been asked. I only had a suspicious looking camera with a long lens and a couple of waterproof field notebooks. All together, it was an assemblage of possibly circumstantial looking evidence that did not look good for me. So, I moved on.

     The maneuverability of the adult birds in flight was spectacular. Barn swallows don't fly all that fast, only about twenty miles an hour. But, they can dip, turn, dive and spin to catch insects in midair. About seventy percent of what they eat is big flies as seen in the bottom photos. They do eat other insects and will pick ants from the ground, too. I have photographed Barn swallows before and written about them, as well (in the previous post about them I had mentioned Michael Jackson, too. According to some readers, that would be another tick against me in the negative column for a jury). Their grace and socialness fascinate me. I have read that they practice mutualism with osprey. I've never seen this, but apparently they will build their nests under that of an osprey taking advantage of the bigger birds protection of their own nest from other birds of prey, like eagles, owls and falcons. The osprey benefits by the swallows alarm calls when there are predators nearby. I am guessing that the flies that accumulate near an osprey's nest from rotting fish parts are attractive to the Barn swallows, too. A little house keeping seems like a good trade for protection from gangsters on the block!

    Barn swallows nest twice a summer. Their clutch success rate (sounds like points a woman gets for buying a really good handbag!) is about 80% unless it has been a cold, rainy year. This keeps the insect counts down and thus, the food availability. That happened in Maine last year when June had record breaking precipitation. Anecdotally (I don't know if ornithology data supported this), people reported fewer swallow chicks.  The chicks fledge about twenty days after hatching. Then, after they have left the nest, they are fed for about a week by the parents. Sometimes, the first brood will assist in feeding of the second! Both parents feed the young. Lady Barn swallows like guys with longer tail streamers (the tail feathers on either side of the notch). If a male is missing his tail, he may be a helper assisting in nest building and feeding rather than breeding. Now is that cordial or what?  

"Cool move, Mom!"

"Hey! What about me? That one looks really juicy!"

Thanks to  wikipedia for some of the information.

Homer Simpson Is A Birder - Blue-headed Vireo & Yellow warbler

Female Yellow Warbler - Phippsburg, Maine  August 2010

     I have a dilemma. I posted these photographs to the Maine Bird List Serve (an Internet reporting service for birding enthusiasts) asking if it was a Tennessee Warbler. Because the bird looks olive green to me, I was thrown and floundering on the identification. The color threw me completely. I was told by numerous respondents that it is a female Yellow warbler. I've seen lots of Yellow Warblers and have photographed many of them, so I didn't think that was it. I spent a fair amount of time wading through bird guides before I posed my question to the larger audience. To give you an idea of how complicated this is I have included one of the responses I received -

"The bird Robin photographed is a female Yellow Warbler. Note the decurved culmen and rather stout bill typical of the genus Dendroica and unlike the nearly straight and sharply pointed bill of Tennessee (genus Oreothylpis, formerly Vermivora). The bird is short-tailed and has yellow edging to tail feathers and the wing; it has a paler yellow eyering; and, unlike Tennessee, bright yellow through out the underparts."

     Now, doesn't that just give you a headache? And admit it, you didn't read the whole thing, short as it is. That's okay. I'm a devoted birder and yet, I too find some of it pretty tedious. My reaction probably accounts for my failure to get it right a lot of the time, too. Warblers at this time of year are a significant challenge because they are wearing non breeding plumage. They are also migrating, so there are more of them including juveniles, headed south.
     My dilemma is that I do want to know what the birds are, but so often, I can't figure it out, so I want to keep asking the experts. Responses to my questions like these, "It's yeeeeeelllllllllllllllow.........now THAT would be a hint," and "Look it up," indicate to me that my questions are annoying. Do ya think? I guess you never get too old to ask a question which someone more knowledgeable will regard as a stupid question. So, should I keep putting it out there just how dumb I am, or keep asking the questions?

Blue-headed vireo eating a Cicada, Phippsburg, Maine August 2010

Blue-headed vireo eating a Mountain ash berry, Phippsburg, Maine August 2010

     Which brings me to this bird. I was pretty sure it was an American redstart. My inclination was that it was a female, or that it could be a first year. I felt pretty pumped up and big for my britches that I had figured that out, too. The head shape and spectacles made me nervous, though. Yes, nervous. Shouldn't birding and photography be fun first, anxiety provoking second? My palms were sweating as I put the question out to the list serve. I reflexively pulled the collar of my shirt away from my neck. I coughed. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I felt a hive welting up. I grabbed a paper bag and pulled it down over my head to stop the hyperventilation I could not control. My head was reeling as I hit send. And of course, I was wrong. In less then twenty-four hours, I committed to the wrong bird! Aachararrrrrrrghhhhh! Being the Homer Simpson of birding, I slapped my head, "N-DOH!"
     At least this was not one I had ever seen before. It is a Blue-headed vireo. There are fifteen species of vireos. Three of them, Plumbeous, Cassin's and Blue-headed look very much alike. In the past, they were lumped together as all one species, the Solitary vireo. Blue-headeds are the eastern most of the three and they like coniferous forests which the other two don't care for so much. Vireos are about 4 1/2 inches head to tail. Their pronounced spectacles are one of their primary identifying features. They are primarily insect eaters though they do eat some fruit. They are migratory in Maine and head to Mexico and Central America when it gets cold which makes them smarter than me and Homer Simpson.


Thanks to David Allen Sibley, The Sibley Guide To Birds and allaboutbirds.com for some of the information.

"Peeps Give Me A Headache!" Plover, Sandpiper Or Lover

Top left and right: Semipalmated sandpiper, Lower left: Spotted sandpiper, Lower right: White-rumped sandpiper. The photos were all taken on the same day at Totman Cove.

 "Peeps" is birding slang for any of a number of North American sandpipers. Their vocalizations are numerous versions of the sound, "peep peep peep." Even though it's only the first week of August, they are beginning to congregate for migration, so there are a lot more of them around these days. The youngsters accompany their parents, adding to the numbers and also the difficulty of identifying them. The plumage of the newbies is not as distinct as they will be next year. They also move really fast on the ground and in flight, so it's hard to get a good look, unless you can get a photograph. And as we know, that presents its own challenges. They can be seen singly, as in the case of the Solitary Sandpiper pictured below, or in large groups skimming the water surface in wheeling arcs. Peeps and plovers, at the end of summer, separate the men from the boys (as my father would have said) in the world of birding identifications.

These two photos of Semipalmated sandpipers were taken within a second of one another as the birds turned en masse against the sunlight, making them look like completely different birds. I was whizzing along in our small boat when they whizzed by me even faster. I nearly broke my neck and fell out of the boat trying to turn fast enough to photograph them. My husband, the helmsman says he would like advance notice when I intend to spin in my seat like that, lest I tip us over. Imagine that. In my efforts to be sure about identifications, before opening my mouth or zipping the keyboard beneath my fingers, I have spent way too much time beating myself up plowing through bird books. Ultimately, I'm probably wrong anyway. If I have mis-identified any of these, I'm sure my loyal readership will let me know. It's a lot more fun racing around in a tin boat with a boyfriend than it is looking through field guides anyway. I'll leave the academics of birding to those with less imagination than I have.  

This is a Spotted sandpiper beautifully camouflaged against the rocks. I've only seen them one at a time and always like this scurrying across the rocks.

Solitary Sandpipers don't hang out with other sandpipers. I only see one or two a year. When I took this shot, I thought I was photographing another Spotted Sandpiper, which I had just seen moments before. It wasn't until I developed the photo that I realized they were not one in the same.

This isn't a sandpiper at all, it's a Semipalmated plover. I know - you think this is a typo, since I just said that one of the birds pictured above is a Semipalmated sandpiper. Since it isn't a sandpiper, but a plover, it's not a peep, either, even though it looks cute enough to be called a "peep." Do you see now why they all give me a headache?

August Is The High Season - Summer Terns

Semipalmated plover atop giant net floats - Lobster Cove, Phippsburg, Maine

Juvenile, Common terns vocalizing to its mother for food - Totman Cove, Phippsburg, Maine

Common terns ignoring young pestering for food or maybe it was mooning me! The full moon often looks orange in summer rising through heat and haze on the earth's surface.

"E" is for ecstasy. "W" is for wild. Those words crown all that we do in these moments of summer. August is "high season" here in The Burg. We have had  a glorious summer weather-wise, which means that we've been unrelentingly busy. Weeds and lawns keep growing even though we'd like to quit. Everything around us seems full to the point of out of control. My garden is busting at the seams. The lilies are enormous and toppling over. All the fledged birds are bickering at the feeders along with their parents. The Ruby-throated hummingbirds are fighting each other over feeder territories. The raccoon youngsters are rifling the feeders at night rousting our dog, then us, from sleep. Acorns are falling from the oaks set into free fall by porcupine young lolling at the ends of the fresh growth in the tree tops. Totman Cove is teaming with mackerel, Striped bass and fry just right for the terns. We hear the Blue Fin tuna are running hard just off from Sequin and everyone is talking about it. The Common terns are chattering constantly not giving us a moments peace punctuated only by the pee-ooo pee-oo of ospreys. It feels like everyone on the eastern seaboard with a boat is here sailing, fishing and motoring. There aren't enough evenings for cocktails with all of our friends, days to boat, swim, eat, garden or even just breathe it all in fast enough. Because, suddenly, it will be over.

     For all of this nearly maddening plenitude, any moment now, it will all stop. This is the great crescendo when breeding, seeding, weeding and sunny days have reached their critical mass. Fall will be here feeling quite sudden, though I can see the signs. The Monarch butterflies have made a couple of appearances, lilting around the flowers. They are the first of the migraters to Mexico. One or two of the fall blooming anemones have opened. The first asters have opened intertwined with fading roses. With the summer terns, summer is turning. It's bittersweet. But, honestly, I can't keep up this pace. Truth be told, my old skin can't take any more sun nor salt. My back feels broken and my brain needs quiet time. A few more days on our little boat with my husband or afternoons naked in the swimming pool will be all I need. Then, I'll be looking for a jacket to wrap me against the next full, cool moon.  

Bye-Bye! Butchies! Bald Eaglets Depart

"Gosh, it looks like a long way down there. Are you guys sure this flying thing will work?"

He had a hard time maneuvering his big wings around.

"Moooooooooooom! Come get me! I want to go home!"

I did my final Butchie Check today. Hasn't this been like following a soap opera? "Like sands through the hour glass, so are the days of our lives," I can hear Macdonald Carey doing the intro. to Days Of Our Lives just like he did the first time, in 1965. My maternal grandmother, "Nanny," never missed an episode. When I was barely ten, she unfailingly stopped her days work to watch. It didn't matter what hadn't been done that should have been, laundry, lunches or watering her flowers. She stopped to watch Days Of Our Lives. We didn't watch T.V. as children, but we did when we spent summers with Nanny and Grampy. My father had an ahead of his time notion that T.V. would result in the destruction of the human race. He maintained that one day, beings of the future, unknown to us today would find televisions in our ruins and remark that is what must have killed us off. But, my grandmother didn't care about his Beatnik notions. Every day at lunch time, she pulled out a   metal T.V. tray for each of us, set our lunch upon them and commanded us to be quiet so that she could watch her show without interruption.     
     All winter long, she had saved the comics from the newspapers for me. My favorite was The Wizard Of Id. It still runs in the dwindling daily rags of today. She also saved McCall's paper dolls which I didn't like so much. I pretended that I did since she had cut them out all winter and saved them for me. Sometimes, while The Days Of Our Lives was droning on, I read The Wizard Of Id collection. I could not tell you one thing about the plots or characters of the episodes of Days Of Our Lives. I do remember though, that one day at least thirty years later, I stumbled on the show on T.V. and was gobsmacked (as the British say) that one of the main characters was still there. To my mind she must have been an actress of at least a hundred years of age. Alice something was her name. I can hear MacDonald Carey's introduction in my mind like it was yesterday.
    At the time, The Days Of Our Lives was ahead of the television programming curve in presenting family situations that were outrageous for T.V. It was very daring in its portrayal of real life American families. Most people like soap operas because they air problems that are so far reaching from most people's realities that they can let go of their own horrible lives, if only for an hour. Sometimes, it's easier to fall down the hole of some else's drama than it is to embrace your own. So, I'm all choked up and messed up and sad about the Butchies leaving home today.
     When I got there, one of them was gone from the nest and nowhere to be found. I searched in the trees all around and even on the ground thinking perhaps the worst had happened. Once when a baby robin fell out of the nest, I brought it into the house. I put it in a cardboard box and tried to keep it alive. It lasted long enough to recognize me as the food source (worms delivered with tweezers). Every time I came into the kitchen it started its "FEED ME, FEED ME!" cheeping racket. Then one morning, it was dead. I would never do this, but can you imagine a baby eagle in a box on your kitchen counter demanding to be fed? YIKES!
     I did find one of the Butchies sitting on a tree limb only 30 feet off the ground. He looked so forlorn and scared it was heartbreaking. Of course, who knows what it was feeling, but I had to wax anthropomorphous. After all, their progress over the past month or so has been my soap opera. I had a relationship with them and talked to them every time I visited. The remaining Butchie sat on the limb, hopped around to adjacent limbs and flapped its huge wings a few times. It looked to the ground repeatedly as is to ask "Hey! Is this flying thing you've all been talking about for real? It looks really scary to me!" One of the parents appeared on scene a few times. It swooped low in an arc and disappeared several times, barely a shadow, as if a ghost checking up on the living. There was no great whooshing of wings as I had heard other times, nor calling to its youngster. Madame Butchie was doing her version of peaking from behind the curtain of a kitchen window as junior masters the tricycle alone in the driveway. Butchie would look longingly in her direction and flap. He seemed all confused by the tree branches and too much wing to move around amongst the sticks. He issued a few, weak, thready "pee,oo-pee,oos"  Eventually, I left him. I struggled with the walk away. I said goodbye. "Have a great life, Little Butchie. I'll see you down the river."