A Murmuration

 

Though perhaps I personally notice it more during the warmer months of the year because I'm out later in the day than I am during the winter, an avid birdwatching friend assures me that (even in the winter) every evening just before sundown, American robins (Turdus migratorius) stream toward a wooded area adjacent to but separate from my preserve.  For 30 minutes as the sun is setting, robins streak across the sky - some singly, some in pairs, and others in large, loose flocks of up to 20 birds.  They are all flying toward the southwest.

The birds seem to materialize out of nowhere in the sky because they are flying relatively high, though I know they are just gathering together from scattered locations where they have been foraging all day.  They are silent - black specks all streaming determinedly in one direction.  It's easy to count hundreds of birds in only a few minutes of watching.  If they were all lumped together, it would be a spectacle, but since they're spread thinly in time and space, they constitute more of an imagined spectacle.  Nevertheless, I'm impressed every time I take a late evening walk.

Last week, I was treated to a real spectacle - only the second one I have ever observed in my life.  Looking over toward the roosting forest, the robins were swirling in the air in an amazing cloud of coordinated flying called a murmuration.  It only lasted a few seconds - alas, too short for Kali, who has weak eyesight, to get a fix on it - but I saw it happen and was transfixed for that moment.

(The images accompanying this post are borrowed from the Internet.)

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My municipal historical society's newsletter recently republished a recipe for pigeon stew that first appeared in the local newspaper's October 18, 1873 edition.  The recipe concludes with the sentence, "Robins are delicious cooked in the same way."  Is it any wonder Passenger Pigeons are extinct?     

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.

Down to Seeds and Stems

We've had generous numbers of American Robins (Turdus migratorius) around my preserve all winter.  There are always robins here during the winter, but we seem to have more than the typical number this winter - despite the fact that there's more snow and longer-lasting snow cover than usual.

Because the snow has lasted so long, I (and other birders) have been wondering what the robins have been eating.  Though they are insectivores and carnivores during the growing season, they rely on fruits and berries during the winter.  However, they long ago stripped all the crabapple trees and holly shrubs of their berries.  What's left?

When Kali and I took a walk on Sunday afternoon, I noticed a small group of robins perched in a tree, flitting from branch to branch.  When I pulled up my camera with the telephoto lens, it became clear what was happening: the robins were eating fruits of invasive alien Asian bittersweet.

I knew that robins ate bittersweet arils (along with the berries of invasive Japanese honeysuckle and the hips of alien multiflora rose), which helps to spread the plants, but this is the first time I had seen them in action.  In addition, one of our strategies for managing our preserve is to try to eliminate as many of these alien plants as possible, so I feel a little guilty about reducing the winter birds' food sources.  On the other hand, the birds can always seek food in warmer climes, can't they...

The image above depicts an Eastern Bluebird (Sialia sialis) nesting box adorned with an icicle.  Bluebirds, also thrushes like robins, switch their diet in winter, too, and we host many bluebirds in the preserve as well.