Christmas in April: Arrivals Pouring In!

Blue-gray gnatcatcher.

 

 

 

This spring every new day feels a little bit like Christmas morning.

It was a brutal, long, gloomy winter here in southeastern Ohio and springlike weather has been slow to arrive. But now that the insect-eating songbirds are beginning to make their spring appearances, I awake each morning full of anticipation about what gifts may have flown in from the south on the night breezes. This is why it's Christmas-like. Just like every Christmas Day morning for the past five decades, I'm rearing to go and full of "Can't wait!"

Often, these last few weeks, my very first thought—before my eyes are open—is: "I'll bet today is the day that the hummingbirds (or tree swallows, or blue-winged warblers, or wood thrushes) get back." The little, brightly feathered "presents" that Nature brings us each spring—in dribs and drabs at first, then in a marvelous gush of song and color as migration reaches its peak.

Oddly our current spring migration has been somewhat inconsistent with our records for returning dates of migrants. Hummingbirds are several days late. Tree swallows are back all around us but ours have not appeared, making us worry about their fate. Only a few warblers have come back—so far no tanagers or orioles. 

Male yellow warbler.

It's all right. Let them take their time. After all, the anticipation is almost as wonderful as seeing and hearing an old familiar friend, returned from a winter away from this old ridgetop farm.

White-eyed vireo.

 

My first vireo of the spring was a male white-eyed vireo that was singing in our orchard on April 11, several days early according to our records. [We've been keeping arrival, departure, and nesting records here on Indigo Hill for 20 years. White-eyed vireos usually arrive each spring on April 15 or 16.]

Singing male ovenbird. Photo by Julie Zickefoose.

I was giddy to hear an ovenbird on Monday of this week. His song is so loud and percussive that it's hard to miss. I'm sure he was not back sooner. He was drifting around the old orchard to the west of our house, singing half-heartedly. By early May our woods will be ringing with the songs of ovenbirds and a dozen other warbler species.

Like the song says: "Springtime, you know it is my songbirds' sing time." And that's music to my ears.

They're Baaaaack!

Uggh! One sure and early sign of spring around these parts is the return of the parasitic nest pirate: the brown headed cowbird.

I looked out at the freshly filled bird feeders this morning and there was a male cowbird, all shiny black body and chocolate-brown head. The male cowbirds return first in spring and the females follow a week or so later. Once everyone is back, they begin their traditional business of courting and making whoopee. The male emits (because it can't really be called "singing") a burbling sound that rises in pitch, ending in a piercing squeak. As he vocalizes, he raises his bill to the sky, trying his best to look at once handsome, regal, fierce, and ready for some lady action. In the next week or so, our farm will become a noisy cowbird singles bar.

When the songbird nesting season starts in about a month, the female brown-headed cowbirds will spend their time watching and waiting. They are very clever at finding the nests of other bird species: warblers, thrushes, tanagers, sparrows, vireos, and many others. Once she spots a nest, a female cowbird will inspect it to see if it has eggs in it. If it does, and if she has a fertilized egg ready to go, she may drop it right there in the nest.

Then she simply flies off to look for another male cowbird, another nest of an unsuspecting songbird into which she can deposit an egg. This nest parasitism evolved from the nomadic lifestyle of the cowbird. Cowbirds traditionally followed the large herds of bison as they roamed across the continent, eating the insects the herds kicked up. As the herds moved, so did the cowbirds, a lifestyle which did not leave any time for nest building or young rearing. So the brown-headed cowbird figured out a way to reproduce successfully by having other birds raise their offspring.

My lifer summer tanager was a handsome adult male, sitting on my parents' platform feeder in our small-town backyard. It was feeding a fledgling brown-headed cowbird.

Each spring I have slight urge to do something to help our songbirds avoid being parasitized by cowbirds. And each spring I realize just how futile this would be. We do cut back on ground feeding, especially on offering cracked corn, when the cowbirds are around. Secretly I'd like to ask for a week-long visit from the Fish & Wildlife Service folks who "control" cowbird populations in the Kirtland's warbler's nesting range. They have large, baited cages where cowbirds check in but they don't check out. A cowbird Hotel California.

Alas they are native birds, so, as much as I despise them, I accept them. And sometimes I even sing about them.