by CKR
I’ve been collecting bird observations in the hope of getting some photos to post. But the birds have been very wary. Finally, a flock of piñon jays gave me my chance.
They’ve flown into the neighborhood every day for the last four or five. Their cries are many and distinctive, partway between a caw, a scrub jay’s squawk, and a dove’s coo, sort of “cawrrrr.” They are usually after the piñon nuts, so I was a bit surprised to see them so soon, before the nuts are mature, but this time was no exception, and I have the evidence.
Another regular morning visitor has been a Cooper’s or sharp-shinned hawk (pictures in that order). They’re similar looking, and this one has been elusive. He glides between my house and the one next door, toward my backyard and an open area below. The books say that these hawks can take birds up to the size of doves, and there are lots of those. One morning, he stopped on my porch railing, enough for me to see his long yellow legs and striped underside, but definitely not for a photo. As soon as I brought my camera up to my face, he was gone. If I had to guess from these two photos, I’d say it was a sharp-shinned hawk. The railing is a nice perch from which to survey the yard, though, so I’m hoping he’ll be back, although I haven’t seen him since the piñon jays arrived.
Speaking of unconventional feeding stations, the flycatcher pair were back to check out the squirrel situation, but fly activity has slowed down a lot. So has the smell. I can’t say I’m too unhappy about that.
I’ve been hearing a fair amount of bird activity through the night. Sometimes it’s a surprised squawk, but more often it seems to be just a short commentary. The may result from the passage of a skunk or coyote, although I haven’t heard coyotes lately. I’m not sure about the commentaries. They seem to be from robins and towhees. At Peipsijärv, I half-awoke one night to a nightingale’s song, on and on, not really repeating, although they do indeed say “jug, jug,” as T. S. Eliot noted. It was lovely to lie there and listen. What I’m hearing now is a great deal less.
The other night, I went out to water my plants just as a wing of about a dozen swept-back nighthawks flew over to start their night. I’m wondering where they spend the day; they sleep on the ground, camouflaged by their color. It might be the empty lot across the street, or they may even be in my yard, an exciting thought. I will have to be more careful about where I walk. I love their nasal overhead “meeb,” especially when I can’t see them. I think of them flying over the city, scooping up the mosquitos that the tourists attract.