Field Notes

RED-SHOULDERED HAWKS

I looked up to make sure I really heard the call of a red-shouldered hawk. I’ve learned to check the source of this sound whenever I can, because certain blue jays can imitate the red-shoulder’s squealing call exactly. But this time it was the real thing.

Not one but three hawks soared past me and across the back field at treetop level, calling to each other. Their elevation and the angle of sunlight was such that I couldn’t see any distinguishing marks. It was a bit unusual to see three birds together in late fall. I

suspected they were immature, or perhaps a couple siblings and a parent traveling together.

Two of them lit in a tall black locust surrounded by cedars, and the other glided off in another direction. They remained silhouetted against the sun so I still couldn’t distinguish their ages.

Hereabouts, Clarke County is chiefly red-tailed hawk country. Red-tails prefer the typical local mix of farm fields and small woodlots. Red-shouldered hawks are chiefly migrants and winter birds here. At these times they can be seen in the open, perched at the edge of a woods or near a body of water. But in summer, they prefer deeper woods, beaver dams and bottomland forests. Unlike most large hawks, red-shoulders typically perch on utility lines. They are sometimes struck and killed by motor vehicles because they habitually hunt from a low perch near roadsides.

A red-shouldered hawk is probably the handsomest of the buteos or soaring hawks. Seen overhead or perched in the sunshine, the adult hawk has a robin-red breast. Up close or through a scope you can see that the breast feathers aren’t a solid color like the robin’s, but are marked with blurred, rusty bars. The wings and tail are strongly barred with black and white. The upper surface of the wings look checkered with black and white, and at the bend of the wing is a brick-red patch that gives the red-shouldered hawk its name. Technically this isn’t the hawk’s shoulder but its wrist.

When the hawk perches, the eponymous spot of reddish is usually hidden by the scapular feathers (the bird’s real shoulders) and is hard to see. But there is an unmistakable field mark to watch for: While soaring overhead, backlit by the sun, all redshouldered

hawks show a crescent shaped marking near the tip of the wing that looks translucent. From above, the crescent looks like a white bar next to the black wing tips on adults. On immature birds, this crescent is a pale buff or cream color. 

Later last week I saw an immature red-shouldered hawk fly up out of the field into some cedars. An immature red-shoulder is a nondescript brownish hawk with a whitish belly. It lacks any rust color in its plumage. Its chest is dark and the breast and belly are whitish, streaked with brown.

A red-shouldered hawk has smaller talons and slightly longer legs than the heavier built red-tail, and relies on surprise and ambush to capture its prey. In warm weather, the red-shoulder catches snakes, frogs, salamanders, toads, and large insects. In winter it hunts small rodents and birds. It also will subsist on carrion. On Salem Church Road a few years ago I saw an immature red-shouldered hawk standing on the pavement next to a road-killed raccoon. Later on that same winter, my wife and I watched an immature red-shoulder repeatedly chase several vultures away from a dead deer lying at the edge of a pasture. 

The first red-shouldered hawk nest I saw in real life appears in the color photograph on page 42 of the 1975 edition of Hal Harrison’s Field Guide to Bird Nests. I was sixteen, and was with the author when he and his wife took the picture. Even without looking at the photo in the book, I still remember the details of that beautiful hawk’s nest. A pair of hawks had built their nest near a beaver dam, about 60 feet up in the crotch of an old white oak tree. The nest was a big basket of interwoven sticks about 18 inches in diameter and 2 feet deep.

Most remarkable were the nest’s colors. The hawks had woven a number of fresh Scotch pine boughs into their nest. In the center were three golf-ball sized eggs, pale greenish marked with blotches of brown. They rested on fresh green sprigs of pine along with white down plucked from the mother hawk’s breast. The beautifully arranged evergreen branches made the nest look as pretty as a Christmas wreath.

Added 8/30/2009

TREE CRICKETS OFFER A NIGHT OF MUSIC AND TREATS!

      My wife and I saved a singer from drowning in a quart of water yesterday.

A small, pale insect floated face down in the water dish my wife keeps on the porch for our dog. When I dipped my finger under it, the insect began to kick weakly. As it revived in my hand I recognized it as a male tree cricket. We released him on the porch trellis where he quickly scurried under a morning glory leaf.

The ringing notes of tree crickets blend in the darkness in a natural orchestral harmony from July through October. But few people know the source of what must be the most familiar of all night sounds.

Tree crickets don’t fit the usual image of a cricket— brown or black squatty things that hop on the ground. Tree crickets are delicate, nearly colorless creatures with long, thin antennae. They spend their days climbing among green leaves and feeding on aphids and other small insects.

My grandmother gave me a recording of the songs of common crickets and grasshoppers of the Eastern States for my ninth birthday. Her timing was perfect. My birthday, August 24^th  , falls at the peak of the insect singing season. The vinyl long-playing record produced by Ohio State University transformed my life.

As soon as it got dark I grabbed a flashlight and started sneaking around our garden looking for the sources of these wonderful sounds. At first this seemed easy enough. The main thing was to be quiet and stealthy.  At the slightest vibration the sounds stopped.  But if I stood still, they’d soon start up again.

Just when I thought I’d pinpointed the exact vine where the singer hid and put my ear to it, I decided the sound was coming from another direction.  When the cricket was so loud it rang in my ears there was no doubt it came from the middle of my dad’s raspberry patch.

What I saw was a pale, wimpy creature no longer than a pin sitting in plain view in the middle of a raspberry leaf.  I’d imagined a robust creature hiding deep in the raspberry canes. But the vibrating wings, raised in a clear, heart shaped fan above its back left no doubt this was my tree cricket!

Flushed with success, I watched the ghostly singer in the beam of my flashlight. When I bumped the leaf in my excitement, the gauzy wings snapped down flat against the insect’s back. Everything got quiet and I waited for what seemed a long time until the wings went up and the loud ringing resumed.

A male tree cricket’s folded wings are flat and don’t hug the body contours like the female’s wings do. The sound is made when a male vibrates a file-like edge on his right wing against a scraper on the edge of his left wing.

My wife and I think one tree cricket species sounds like a ringing telephone.  Years ago a tree cricket lived in the shrubbery near the house. Several times it sent us inside to answer what we thought was the ring of the phone we had at the time. We still laugh when we hear a “telephone cricket.”

While singing, a male tree cricket secretes a liquid just behind his wings that collects in a shallow depression in the middle of his back.  Female tree crickets are attracted to this liquid. By flashlight I’ve watched several females gather around behind the singer’s raised wings and lap up this fluid.

It’s well documented, if not well-known, phenomenon I’ve read about in both technical and popular insect reference books. Male tree crickets apparently entertain females with music and light refreshments!

Listen tonight to the tree crickets and notice that most of them ring more or less continuously while some of them chirp.  The chirping tree cricket is known as the snowy or temperature cricket. Groups of snowy tree crickets often synchronize their chirps. The tempo is fastest on hot summer nights, but as things cool down in the fall the nightly cadence gets slower and slower. In fact the Old Farmer’s Almanac says if you count the number of snowy tree cricket chirps in fifteen seconds, then add forty to that total, you get a close approximation of the temperature in degrees Fahrenheit.

When I hear tree crickets chirp in unison as if shouting “treat, treat, treat,” I smile at the thought that they really do offer treats!

Added 7/15/09

RESCUED OWLS: A SUCCESS STORY

    While most wild babies are best left alone, there are times when caring people intervene and things work out for the best. When I spoke with wildlife rehabilitator Peggy Koontz last week she had a great story about a rescued family of screech owls at the Blue Ridge Wildlife Center.

About a month ago an adult screech owl was brought to the center suffering from a concussion and other minor injuries. Koontz noticed the female owl’s  brood patch indicated she had been on a nest or attending young at the time she was found. The owl was installed on the enclosed back porch at the Wildlife Center for recovery and eventual return to the wild.

At about the same time, a Clarke County resident found four young screech owls that had lost their home when a tree had fallen, at a spot many miles from where the adult owl was found. The youngsters were brought in and also installed on the back porch, where Koontz intended to care for them until she felt she could safely release them.

Soon afterward, the injured female owl was brooding the orphaned owlets, and she behaved protectively and aggressively when Koontz attempted to feed the babies.  Now, Koontz says, all she needs to do is supply plenty of freshly killed or live baby mice. The recovering bird has assumed complete care for her newly adopted family.

This was a beautiful story, where things worked out for the very best.  I like to think the injured adult owl’s wild mate assumed the care of her own family after she was injured, and that both screech owl families are thriving.

There’s another bright facet to this story. Young birds of prey rescued or taken from the wild become dependent on humans to feed them. If simply let go, they would starve. Teaching them to hunt food for themselves to the point where they can be finally released into the wild is a difficult, time consuming and expensive process.

First, young raptors are taken to a likely habitat in an outdoor enclosure. Once they’re accustomed to the release site, the door to the enclosure is left open and the birds are free to come and go as they please. But food is provided for the youngsters at the familiar enclosure while they learn to hunt on their own.  Given a choice between learning to hunt or hanging out and waiting for free handouts, young raptors too often choose the easy way out.

But in this case the four young owls and their adoptive mother will likely be released into the wild together. She’ll be able to care for them while they learn to fend for themselves.

It’s a tough world for baby owls. Not only must they learn to avoid predators but they also must learn to become predators. And as birds of prey they must live with constant harassment by other birds. Yesterday I got a glimpse of this life when I encountered some young barred owls.

 I parked alongside a stream in a wooded ravine and saw a pair of huge brown wings disappear into the woods, accompanied by a crow in hot pursuit. Having seen an adult barred owl in the middle of the day at this exact spot a few weeks ago, I had a good idea that’s what the big wings belonged to.  And my heart leaped with anticipation when I heard a wheezy cry farther back in the woods.  I suspected it might be a baby owl.

After a short, careful stalk through the woods in the direction of the calls, I stopped underneath a sycamore tree above the stream and looked directly up into the liquid black eyes of a  young barred owl.

The size of a grown chicken, the young owl looked as big as an adult. Covered with brown speckled fuzz except for the brown barred wing and tail feathers that looked too big for it, the owl had a patch of adult feathers sprouting on either side of its chest that made it look like  it wore striped suspenders. Overhead a second baby owl flew off its perch, and I thought I heard a third one off to the right.

I found these owls easily by observing the bird commotion around them.  Across the creek several wood thrushes scolded excitedly. A tufted titmouse, also feeding newly fledged babies, made harsh complaints. A pair of crested flycatchers flew agitatedly back and forth. One of them disappeared into a cavity at the end of a dead limb where I assumed its nest was hidden. Twice the owl looked up as a tiny hummingbird assaulted its young head.

The owl yawned, blinked its eyes, made a fist of one of its feet and stood on the other one. It was time to leave. I didn’t want to attract any more attention to these handsome babes of the woods. I sneaked to the car, drove away and left the youngster to doze on his streamside perch.

If you find an injured baby bird or want to volunteer to help care for injured and orphaned wildlife, call the Blue Ridge Wildlife Center at 540-837-9000.

Added: 5/8/2009 ORIOLE DAYS

  Oriole days. They come at the time the apple blossoms open and the woods are heavy with the earthy scent of hanging green oak tassels. Just when the leaves are about to open into a green canopy, the orioles burst on the scene. And I’m  talking birds, not baseball.

 These aren’t ordinary birds.  Hanging from the ends of tree branches, probing burgeoning buds for tiny insects and nectar, orioles look exotic and exciting. Yellow, black and flame-orange feathers and a pointed, flower-piercing bill harmonize with tropical flora but look slightly out of place in our temperate climate. Hearing an oriole’s clear, tuneful whistle that first May morning makes me drop whatever I’m doing to get a look at the first oriole of spring. Oriole days turn me into a bird watcher.

One of our prettiest songbirds, the Baltimore oriole is a true neotropical migrant. It appears literally overnight, as if by magic. Twice a year orioles fly thousands of miles, under cover of darkness, between Central America and Virginia.

Having lived all winter on tropical fruit and flower nectar, orioles are drawn in spring to local bird feeders offering sugar water and pieces of fruit. Specialty catalogs and garden centers offer a variety of special oriole feeders. Much like those designed for hummingbirds, they often include packaged mixes of “oriole nectar.”  But orioles aren’t fussy. They love sugar water. Better yet, nail half an orange, pulp side out, to the trunk or low branch of a tree and watch the orioles fly down to the fruit.

 The first arrivals are the fiery males. A few days later they are joined by the only slightly browner, smoldering females. I suspect these sultry ladies are wildly desirable and in short supply. Several males often hotly pursue a female even after nesting season begins. A few years ago my wife and I spent an evening lounging in our Adirondack chairs in the backyard while two male orioles and one female chased each other back and forth between the trees. Once the trio landed on the old, broken-down pasture fence, lighting it up with their tropical fire.

 With no prior practice or experience the female oriole constructs a nest that’s a wonder of nature.  Shaped like a macramé shoulder bag,  woven of plant fibers and suspended from the last fork at the end of a branch, it usually hangs fifteen to twenty feet above the ground. Elms, willows, and sycamores are favorite nesting trees.

 I have an oriole’s nest I cut from the forked end of a black walnut tree branch. My wife discovered it lying in our yard after a winter storm. About 6 1/2 inches deep and 4 1/2 inches wide at the bottom, that nest has weathered to a silvery driftwood gray and is so evenly knit and knotted that it looks like crochet work. The lining is made of hair, fine grass and plant down. The whole thing is tightly woven, particularly at the bottom. So finely is it crafted that when birds are inside they draw the top of the nest together slightly with their own weight.

 In this cradle that swings to the rhythm of summer winds, mother orioles lay three to six eggs that hatch within 14 days. While they feed their young on insects, the adults are fond of fruit such as black raspberries and blueberries.  Both parents feed the yellow- bellied, olive-backed fledgelings until a week or so after they leave the nest.

 Another oriole, the orchard oriole, occurs here as well. Not so striking as their orange and black relatives, adult male orchard oriole have the same color pattern but bright chestnut-brown replaces the orange. Females and first-year males are olive-green with two white wing bars and a yellowish breast.  Orchard orioles build a shallower basket rather than a pouch nest, but employ the same materials and craftsmanship.

 Orioles will grace our northern latitudes for barely four months. They’ll depart in early September for Central and South America.