Birding in late July: Cape Elizabeth’s quiet abundance

Late July in Cape Elizabeth hums with quiet abundance. Birdsong drifts through marshes and shorelines—not the exuberant chorus of spring, but a more contemplative music. Juvenile calls mix with the rehearsals of late breeders, and the rhythms of migration begin to stir just beneath the surface. It’s a time when the landscape feels full and fleeting, and when a watchful eye might glimpse seasonal transitions, perhaps a fledgling tracing its first flight path, a dowitcher probing the flats, or a wren bubbling into view. This is birding in Cape Elizabeth at summer’s height—warm, wild and quietly expectant.

On July 19, a large gathering of Short-billed Dowitchers caught my attention within the tidal wetlands section of Sawyer Road. These plump shorebirds—wielding surprisingly long bills like sewing needles—rhythmically probe the mudflats for invertebrates with mesmerizing precision. Despite their name, their bills rival those of the Long-billed Dowitcher; the “short” is merely comparative. But it’s not just their feeding that fascinates—it’s their understated beauty and adaptability. Breeding adults wear a tapestry of orange, gold and brown. Juveniles, edged in golden hues, shimmer in shifting light. They nest in boreal wetlands and migrate in flocks, favoring saltwater marshes and coastal lagoons. Their soft “tu-tu-tu” calls and elegant flight add a lyrical texture to northern bogs and our southern estuaries alike. Particularly intriguing is their molt strategy, referred to as molt migration. While many shorebirds molt before heading south, Short-billed Dowitchers delay this process until reaching coastal wintering grounds. Spurwink Marsh serves as a critical stopover point for these long distance migrants, offering sanctuary for rest and renewal.

Another bird I have enjoyed coming across on several occasions in late July along the Pond Cove Brook Corridor Section of Robinson Woods is the Spotted Sandpiper. A distinctive looking bird, they charm with spotted breeding plumage and a signature teetering gait—their tails bob with every step. Remarkably, females flip traditional roles: arriving first, defending territories, and courting multiple males, who take on egg incubation and chick-rearing. This rare polyandrous behavior, seen in less than one percent of bird species, adds intrigue to their already whimsical presence.

At dusk on July 20 I came across a Black-crowned Night Heron along the banks of Pond Cove Brook Corridor section. Stocky, striking and secretive, these birds emerge when others fall silent. With dagger-like bills and piercing red eyes, they hunt under moonlight—expert predators of fish, amphibians and small mammals. Motionless for long stretches, they strike with lightning efficiency, embodying the stealth of the night.

One late afternoon in late July, my youngest son and I skimmed along the fringes of Great Pond in our canoe. We listened for the bubbling eruptions of Marsh Wren song, as I was eager to catch a glimpse of this elusive vocalist. Cape Elizabeth hosts four wren species annually. The Marsh Wren, similar in stature to the House Wren, nestles between the larger Carolina Wren and the diminutive Winter Wren. Only the Carolina Wren weathers Maine’s harsh winters.

Tree Swallows darted above as a flick of motion drew my eye—there he was, tail cocked, feet splayed across a single bent reed like a tightrope walker. The cattails around us seemed spun just for him—hidden, but unmistakably present. And then, the song: a torrent of trills spilled with such flourish that it felt as if the pond itself had begun to sing. I wondered—was it meant for a mate? A warning to us? Or simply an exuberant declaration of self? Perhaps all three.

Yet for all his lyrical charm, the male Marsh Wren plays a ruthless game: piercing rival eggs with surgical precision. It’s a stark reminder that even the most melodic lives carry jagged edges. He builds not one nest, but many—some decoys, some invitations—all stitched into the stalks with secret purpose.

On a birding related note, I recently enjoyed reading an article in the Cornell Lab of Ornithology’s summer issue titled “Listening with Merlin Bird ID, I hear the Patterns We Live By.” The author, Andrew J. Lewis, shares how the Merlin Bird ID app has transformed his birding experience – not just by aiding identification, but by deepening his connection to nature, memory and self. The author’s reflection on the Merlin Bird ID app is less about technology and more about belonging. Using the app not only helped him identify an elusive sparrow but awakened a deeper attunement to patterns—both ecological and personal. As Lewis adapted to life in a power wheelchair, Merlin became a bridge between him and the soundscape of nature, transforming his limitations into moments of vivid connection. He coins the term “visceral technological kinetic fulfillment” to describe this harmony between tool and user, emphasizing that birding is not just about visual records or rare sightings but about resonance, narrative, and joy. For Lewis, listening through Merlin is a way of continuing to inhabit the natural story—fully, meaningfully and with soul.