Local birding report

On the last day of January a Chipping Sparrow showed up amongst the other sparrows in our backyard. Slightly bigger than a chickadee, the bird stood out from its cousins the White Throated Sparrow and Dark-Eyed Junco with its slim, long-tailed look, chestnut cap and black stripe through the eye. Chipping Sparrows in southern Maine are seldom seen before mid-April, at which point they are quite common. In Henry Thoreau’s journal of 1852 he notes a shivering Chipping Sparrow that showed up in mid-February and had clearly “come too early in the spring.”

Historical data suggests that this sparrow species was less common in winter prior to 1980, and that bird feeders have likely led to the increase of reported winter sightings. Our little guest hung around for two weeks and on sunny mornings if I listened carefully, I could hear the creature’s soothing, simple chipping chant. In his 1929 publishing of “Birds of Massachusetts and other New England States,” Edward Forbush describes back and forth between these sparrows as “one singer regularly answers another on a slightly different key, so that the sound, softened by distance seems gently to come and go like the breath of a sleeper in the fields.”

When February rolls in I am always thankful for the lively flock of gray and white sparrows that descend upon my backyard every morning to forage. Slightly bigger than a Chipping Sparrow, Dark-eyed Juncos have a vivacious way about them as they rejoice amidst a snowsquall. Adeptly described by pioneering American ornithologist Florence Merriam Bailey as “little gray-robed monks and nuns,” Dark-eyed Juncos are peaceful and not prone to quarrel like many of their sparrow cousins. These sprightly snowbirds are one of the most abundant forest birds in North America and are common across Cape during the winter months. By mid-March most of their population will have departed our yards and roadsides for their breeding grounds in the old spruce forests of western and northern Maine and beyond.

Additionally, on February 5 my son and I watched as two Ravens crossed the wide blue sky above Crescent Beach State Park heading towards Richmond Island. Their deep guttural croak, audible for more than a mile, never ceases to briefly bring my mind to a wilder place long ago. In “Ten Birds that Changed the World,” by Stephen Moss, we are reminded of the exceptionally long history Ravens and human beings have living alongside each other.

Our prehistoric ancestors thousands of years ago developed semi-symbiotic relationships with these opportunistic and adaptable birds. Ravens regularly followed human hunters in order to feed on whatever remained after a successful hunt. In return Ravens resourcefully began to alert human hunters to the presence of prey. Ravens learned that it was to their advantage to communicate with humans and other top predators as a way to effectively share in the spoils of the kill. Through this symbiotic relationship the Raven has become a central figure in origin stories of ancient civilizations and the primary bird of global myth and legend, from Noah’s Arc to the Vikings.

A few other notes from the yard and field include, on February 6 three Brown Creepers were foraging in an old White Oak Tree along Shore Road and on February 9 along the Spurwink River two male Common Goldeneye ducks performed brief courtship displays including the “head throw kick” while a Belted Kingfisher unleashed its wild rattling call directly overhead. Seconds later two separate pairs of Red-breasted Mergansers flew by at close range; the lanky, somewhat disheveled look of the male in flight is a sight to see.

Additionally, on February 10 from Two Lights State Park I noted eight Long-tailed Ducks, several dozen Common Eiders and White-winged Scoters and a single Black Guillemot. And on February 11 around 10 p.m. I heard a Great-horned Owl calling from somewhere behind Town Hall while a Barred Owl hooted simultaneously deep within Robinson Woods. Lastly, a red-morph Eastern Screech Owl has been making itself known within the Canco Woods section of Portland. These owls are rare in Maine. There are two different color morphs of the Eastern Screech owl, a red or rufous morph and a grey morph. Roughly 85% of screech owls in New England are grey morphs. A higher percentage of red morphs are found in southern states.

The first time I saw a red morph was on an early summer night in Massachusetts many years ago. I had been listening to and responding to five young screech owls – four grey morphs and one rufous morph on our property. From somewhere out in the darkness I heard a strange screeching noise that sounded like a bad imitation of a screech owl call. Seconds later came an absurd screaming sound that sent a shiver through me. Turning my flashlight in the direction of the commotion what I saw still haunts me to this day. I had not been the only one listening to the screech owls that night. A Red Fox had been listening too and snuck up below me. Imitating the owl’s call, he somehow lured a young bird close enough to the ground and proceeded to snatch it in its jaws. The following morning I found the remnants of a Red-morph Eastern Screech Owl in a tall bit of grass below an old arborvitae tree. I gave the remains of the screech owl a proper burial and promised myself never to call an owl ever again.