Local birding report

Cygnus the Swan constellation flies high along the Milky Way in August, and somewhere between the treetops and the cloud bottoms, a buzzy tseep call drips from the starlit sky. It’s a quiet signal: fall migration has already begun for some songbirds.

Throughout the month, the dreamy whistle of the Eastern Wood-Pewee still lingers among the tall trees of our forests. Though flycatchers aren’t technically songbirds, this dusky dweller of shaded groves sings a simple, three-note tune—honest and haunting. If you find yourself in the woods in August, pause and listen for its melancholic call.

On August 6, a sound pulled me from the house—a call I hadn’t heard much this summer. Outside, a female Eastern Towhee leapt from the underbrush, perched atop a habitat pile, and delivered her rising two-part chewink call.

Once upon a time these birds were simply called “Chewinks,” named for their distinctive note. Henry David Thoreau described the call made by the towhee as a “jingle.” Both sexes share this vocalization. The habitat pile—made from stacked limbs and branches—has become a magnet for birds and a lasting feature in the wooded section of my yard.

On the morning of August 8, while exploring Trundy Point with my two sons, we were greeted by the cheerful refrain of a male Yellow Warbler: sweet, sweet, sweet, sweetie. A reminder that summer’s warmth still lingers. This vibrant warbler, often tucked into shrubbery, is among the most common nesting wood warblers in Cape Elizabeth—second only to the Common Yellowthroat.

At dusk on August 8, I startled a Great Horned Owl from a known perch at the edge of an overgrown field in Robinson Woods. This marked the fifth time this year I’ve encountered “old Bubo” (Bubo virginianus) in the same spot and at nearly the same hour. With a few stiff, silent wingbeats, the owl vanished into the darkness.

Later that evening, a Barred Owl called from the upper Pond Cove Brook Corridor—not far from where the Great Horned had flown. Though both species may share territory, Barred Owls often retreat when a Great Horned is nearby. The latter poses a serious threat, with documented cases of predation on Barred Owls.

The next afternoon, a shrill, repeated whistle drew my gaze skyward to an Osprey soaring at great height. Perhaps a juvenile testing its wings, or a frustrated adult lamenting a lost catch. One summer, my son found a dead Blueback Herring in our yard, its markings hinting at a raptor’s grip. Ospreys, once called “Fish Hawks,” are known to drop struggling fish mid-flight and can travel up to twelve miles from their nests, reaching speeds of 80 mph.

On August 9 along Sawyer Road, I spotted nine Least Sandpipers and a single Pectoral Sandpiper—a robust shorebird about robin-sized, with a thick bill and long wings. Males are strikingly larger than females, and adults wear a cloak of brown, gold, and black with a white belly and neat stippling across the breast. Though most Pectoral Sandpipers migrate via the Central Flyway, they’re reliably seen in Cape from late July through early October.

That same outing brought sightings of two Nelson’s Sparrows and one Saltmarsh Sparrow. Once considered a single species—the “Sharp-tailed Sparrow”—they were formally split in 1995 by the American Ornithologist’s Union. The Saltmarsh Sparrow’s song is a whispery mix of trills, buzzes and gurgles, while the Nelson’s Sparrow offers a louder hissing buzz followed by a buzzy chip.

Lastly, on the warm late afternoon of August 11, several noisy Common Grackles along with a male Baltimore Oriole, two Gray Catbirds and a Red-breasted Nuthatch gathered at the suet feeder in my backyard. Overhead, the silhouettes of Chimney Swifts crisscrossed the open sky, their chatter stitching the dusk with sound.