Local birding report

With the electricity of spring migration behind us, late June into July across Cape Elizabeth becomes a quieter but equally rewarding season, one defined by new behaviors, family groups and the steady work of raising the next generation.

I’ve especially enjoyed the activity in my backyard where two pairs of Rose-breasted Grosbeaks have been making frequent appearances. The females, in particular, seem every bit as bold as the males—perhaps even more so—when challenged by Blue Jays or other male grosbeaks vying for a perch. On one occasion, a female Baltimore Oriole and a Red-bellied Woodpecker dined side by side while a Gray Catbird and a Red-breasted Nuthatch waited, with surprising patience, for their turns.

Another recent observation has centered on our early morning songsters: Catbirds, Robins, Eastern Phoebes, Cardinals, and Chipping Sparrows. Of note, it is the Chipping Sparrow that begins the dawn chorus, typically around 4 a.m. this time of year. These sparrows belong to the genus Spizella, derived from the ancient Greek spiza, meaning “finch,” combined with the Latin diminutive -ella, meaning “small.” Together, Spizella translates to “small finch-like bird,” an apt description for this group of slim, short-tailed American sparrows with round heads and long wings.

While reading about the genus, I recalled a poem written in 1902 by American naturalist John Burroughs, who captured the spirit of this early-rising bird. One brief excerpt reads: “In the bushy pastures, Ere April days are done... Is Spizella thrilling In notes that circling run, Like wavelets in the water That go rippling in the sun.”

Additional observations from the field include: one late afternoon in June, I heard an unfamiliar sound coming from the wooded section behind our house. It was a sharp, high-pitched chirp repeated with insistent urgency. I stood quietly for several minutes, scanning the branches, my mind racing through possibilities.

Was this a rare visitor I had never encountered, or simply an odd vocalization from a familiar species like a Tufted Titmouse? When the flutelike carol of a Baltimore Oriole rang out overhead, I suddenly had a strong hunch: a juvenile oriole begging for food. Moments later, both adult orioles slipped toward a shadowy nook in a large oak, confirming my suspicion. Fledgling calls are often a source of confusion this time of year, and although I may have heard this sound before, I had surely forgotten it.

Early summer is also when I set out to find certain species without which the season would feel incomplete: Bobolinks with their tumbling, metallic songs; uncommon shorebirds like the American Oystercatcher; terns such as Arctic and Roseate; and elusive marsh birds like the American Bittern.

Last summer I saw a male and two female Bobolinks along the Spurwink Trail and Town Farm, so I began my search there again. Ducking behind the Portland Water District shed on June 18, I scanned the place where salt marsh meets lush, uncut pasture and soon spotted three male Bobolinks performing their exuberant display flights. Within seconds, their bubbling chatter carried across the tidal doglegs. Ornithologist Edward Forbush once wrote, “The Bobolink is a harlequin of the summer meadows... his music bubbles irrepressibly forth at such a rate that half a dozen notes seem to be crowding upon the heels of every one uttered.”

Bobolinks are among the most spectacular long-distance migrants, traveling roughly 12,500 miles between Maine and wintering grounds in Bolivia, Paraguay and Argentina. One way they build the fat reserves needed for such journeys is by feeding well after dark under bright moonlight.

Historically, Bobolinks have endured many hardships. In the early 1800s, “vast numbers” bred across Maine, including on many of our larger coastal islands. But by the early 1900s they were being shot in large numbers under the pretense of protecting southern rice fields. At the height of their abundance, Bobolinks were considered a delicacy and shipped by the dozen to New York and Paris. Today, their greatest threat is habitat loss— specifically, hayfields cut before nestlings have fledged. Listed as a Species of Greatest Conservation Need, Bobolinks have declined by 3% annually in Maine and by 88% over the past fifty years.

Later that afternoon, crossing the Spurwink footbridge toward Gull Crest, I briefly encountered a night heron being harassed by a Red-winged Blackbird as it flew toward its evening roost. I was able to identify it as a Black-crowned Night Heron rather than a Yellow-crowned by noting that its feet did not extend past the tail in flight. Yellow-crowned Night Herons have longer legs and necks, which give them a different silhouette.

Other local sightings include two clamorous Laughing Gulls flying over our house on June 17—Maine’s only regularly nesting hooded gull—and, on June 18, a Brown Thrasher taking a spirited bath in a pool of water atop a thicket along the rocky shoreline off McKenney Point Road.

Lastly, on June 20, along the fringes of the town transfer station, Gull Crest, and CELT lands, Ovenbirds, American Redstarts, Common Yellowthroats, Yellow Warblers, and Chestnut-sided Warblers were all vigorously defending their leafy fiefdoms through song. And deep within the tangles, a male Eastern Towhee emerged onto a dead birch to deliver his metallic trill—drink-your-tea—in the late afternoon sun.