Late Summer Dusk

At dusk every evening in late summer, hundreds - maybe thousands - of American Robins fly over the fields of my preserve.  Almost all are flying from north to south, though I don't think they are migrating.  I believe they are headed to a communal roost somewhere beyond the horizon.  This astonishing passage can continue for half an hour, with birds materializing out of thin air in the north and then fading into the ether to the south.

Sometimes the birds are clumped together.  Sometimes, they are flying solo.  Usually, though, they are flying in small groups.  All pass silently overhead, earnest to get to their destination before nightfall.  I can watch, mesmerized, for the entire spectacle.  Poor Kali, whose eyesight is nowhere as good as mine and who has lots of "floaters," only sees the occasional bird and doesn't understand my open-mouthed astonishment.  

Curiosity overpowering the instinct to flee

Last evening, I went out to see if any Common Nighthawks were migrating over my preserve.  Kali and I watched nine of them wheeling over the meadows on Sunday evening, August 23, but I haven't seen any since.  Because their migration is a harbinger of autumn, and nighthawks are fascinating birds in their own right, I'm always excited to see them, but was only fortunate once this summer.  Instead, last night I was treated to several does and their fawns browsing in the meadows and...

Heading back to the evening roost

...a small flock of tom turkeys sauntering through the grasses, reluctant to end their day.

Foxtail

This spring, our native grasslands were infested with Canada thistle, a Pennsylvania noxious weed that we are obligated by law to control (and which we want to manage in order to minimize competition with native grasses and desirable forbs).  We hired an herbicide professional to treat our fields, and his chemical magic did the trick - we had no thistle problem this year.  Instead, the fields are now a sea of non-native foxtail (Setaria spp.), an annual grass that is common in disturbed areas.  Once the native grasses regain the upper hand, foxtail will gradually disappear.

Foxtail seedhead

Dusk landscape with fields, forest, and distant towers

I won't miss the passing of summer, but it does have its moments.

Thanksgiving Survivors and Turkey Turds (for Robin Andrea & Mark)

With my recent surgery, I've been "mobility challenged" so I can't go for walks or take images.  Hopefully, that situation will improve over the next few weeks.

I'd mentioned previously that a hen turkey and her single "adolescent" chick (probably hatched in early August vs. a typical early May hatching) had been coming to my feeder to eat every morning.  They "survived" Thanksgiving, but I think I jinxed them.  On Friday after Thanksgiving, I photographed the pair at the feeder, but on Saturday I noticed a single hen mixed into an otherwise all-male flock...uh oh.  Yesterday, I noticed the same configuration of a single hen among two dozen toms.  Then, this morning, the hen came up to the feeder unaccompanied by her youngster.  I don't know what happened; we've had relatively mild weather, so I doubt that the adolescent succumbed to the elements.  I wonder if a Great Horned Owl could have picked it off its perch at night, or if the youngster fell victim to a coyote.

Follower Robin Andrea mentioned that she'd never seen turkey feces (that she recognized, anyway), and Follower Mark said that the feces of male and female turkeys twist in opposite directions, so I photographed a few examples.  When the turkeys have plenty of good stuff to eat, their feces look like those in the following images (gender unknown).  Most of the fibrous fecal matter is brownish or greenish, but there's a bit of white uric acid at one end.

If the turkeys don't have enough to eat, or if what they're eating is moist, or if they've drunk a lot of water, they produce feces like this one, which (trust me) is as slippery as a proverbial banana peel.

Midsummer Miscellany

 Katydid (Image from InImage.com, not one of mine) 

No theme to today's post, just a few random notes.

First, last night (Wednesday, July 13), the annual katydid chorus began.  Only Tuesday, I had mentioned to Kali that I'd been hearing cicadas for the last week or so but hadn't yet heard a katydid.  But on our quotidian evening stroll to close the gate after sunset, three or four katydids were serenading from the trees.  Nothing says mid- to late-summer than katydids at night.  Fortunately, it got cool last night and I could leave the windows open to hear them.

Second, the flock of three hen turkeys and their combined 15 poults have gotten up enough courage to eat the seed spilled under my bird feeder.  Prior to yesterday, they'd been too skittish to allow me to sprinkle seed under the feeder for them, but now they've gotten used to me.  The poults still scuttle away a short distance when I appear, but the hungry females rush for the seed, and the young are not far behind.  By autumn, they'll all be demanding seed.

Third, deer have gotten into my garden. Either I left the gate open, or they pushed it open, but when I went down to cut basil for spaghetti sauce on Monday evening, the gate hung ajar and the tomato plants had been partially ravaged.  Nearly all of the fruits were gone, and much of the plant material had been damaged.  Fortunately, there were still some fruits left, and some of the plants have flowers on them, but it will be a lean and late harvest this year.  I secured the gate and strung deer netting higher up on the fence posts; I hope it keeps them out.

Finally, Kali and I are heading West tomorrow to cross off one of the items on my "bucket list."  Notice I said my list, not our list.  She's a good sport and, if everything goes well, she'll have a great time, too.  Update during the last week of July when I return.

A Rafter of Turkeys, and a November Bat

Wild Turkeys

Wild Turkeys (Meleagris gallopavo) were reintroduced into our heavily suburbanized watershed 15 or so years ago.  I know the individual who released the farm-raised wild stock in a county park downstream of my natural area.  The turkeys have securely established themselves, though their population density fluctuates annually.  The immigration of a healthy coyote (Canis laterans) population three years ago, which I thought at the time might doom the flocks, doesn't seem to have had a significant impact.

This year has been a banner year. 

Three hens coalesced their broods at the end of the summer and now there are at least 30 yearlings in my yard most of the time.  It doesn't help that I feed them, of course, but I like to enjoy their beautiful colors and their distinctly prehistoric gestalt.  Though they will eat whole corn, they prefer oil sunflower (naturally), and it gets expensive feeding 30 turkeys after a while.  People ask me if they're wild, and I tell them the flock's history and explain that feeding them has made them almost like pets.

I learned over the weekend, by the way, that a group of turkeys is called a "rafter."

  
Saturday afternoon, Kali and I went for a walk (at the county park where the turkeys were introduced, incidentally).  There, flying over an open field, was a bat gleaning insects. It was 55 degrees, and November 20, and there was a bat in mid-afternoon.  We watched  for several minutes while it cruised the air in search of prey.  We didn't know whether to be amazed or saddened, since the sighting was so strange, unexpected, and out of character for a bat.