August 2020

Front Cover: August 2020

Sat, 01 Aug 2020 00:00:00 GMT

Greater Yellowlegs

The Greater Yellowlegs (Tringa melanoleuca) is one of North America's most widespread and easily identified shorebirds. This middle- to large-sized shorebird has long, lemon-yellow legs, distinguishing it from all other shorebirds except for the Lesser Yellowlegs, which is smaller and weighs about half of what the Greater weighs. Greater Yellowlegs has a long, heavy, and slightly upturned bill; Lesser Yellowlegs has a proportionately smaller bill that is shorter, straighter, and more delicate.

In breeding plumage, adult Greater Yellowlegs are gray to brown with whitish spots above, and the head and neck are gray with white flecks. They have white bellies with black barring on the flanks. The nonbreeding plumage is a paler version of the breeding plumage, with the dark flank markings mostly gone. Juveniles are similar in plumage to the nonbreeding adults, but have pale throats and streaking on the breast. The Greater Yellowlegs is monomorphic with no recognized subspecies. It is closely related to the Old World greenshanks, but further study is needed to sort out the relationships.

The breeding range of Greater Yellowlegs stretches from southern Alaska to central British Columbia and in a swath across central Canada south of Hudson Bay to Newfoundland. They winter along both coasts of the United States, the Caribbean Islands, and from Arizona and Texas south through Mexico, Central America, and locally throughout South America. In Massachusetts, the Greater Yellowlegs is a common coastal migrant on salt marshes and mud flats and is sometimes common inland in suitable habitat. It is a rare but regular visitor during winter, primarily on Cape Cod. Yellowlegs arrive from late April to early May and depart beginning in mid-July; fall migration numbers peak from late August until the end of September. They spend their winters in coastal marshes, mud flats, swampy wetlands, and lagoons. Greater Yellowlegs tend to be a solitary species, although in migration they may be found in small flocks. However, when feeding they tend to stay at least 30 feet apart from conspecifics.

The Greater Yellowlegs' most frequent vocalization is a three-note call, often described as whew whew whew or teu teu teu; it is strident, loud, and clear and is often given during flight. When alarmed, they give a series of kek calls while standing. On the breeding territory (and sometimes in migration), the male gives a yodeling flight song during the courtship display, in which the bird flaps its wings as it rises, coasts to a high point, then falls with closed wings some distance before resuming regular flight. On the ground, the courting male runs around the female and raises quivering wings.

Greater Yellowlegs are boreal breeders, nesting in muskeg and other waterlogged ground covered with lichens, mosses, and sedges, as well as in open woodlands and meadows where there are small ponds and sloughs. They also breed on tundra. Lined with sedges, grasses, or leaves, the nest is a well-hidden, shallow scrape in peat, moss, grass, or other substrate, often close to a short boreal tree.

The nesting biology of Greater Yellowlegs is poorly known. The usual clutch of 3–4 dark-spotted gray or olive eggs is incubated for about three weeks until hatching. Adult birds often sit tight on the nest when approached, or they may leave the nest and give a broken-wing distraction display. While nesting, one adult sits on the eggs or stays with the chicks while the other bird perches on a tree in order to spot predators at considerable distance. Predators are harassed or mobbed. Chicks are precocial, capable of leaving the nest and feeding themselves the day they hatch. Both parents remain with the chicks for about a month until they begin to fly. One or both parents continue to accompany the chicks for an additional two weeks until they become capable of sustained flight.

Greater Yellowlegs usually forage in shallow water or on mud flats. Their prey consists of small marine and terrestrial invertebrates, including shrimp, beetles, insect larvae, and small fish and amphibians. In daytime they are primarily visual foragers, stabbing at prey with the bill, but at night and sometimes during the day they use a sweeping motion, which suggests that they are foraging tactilely. They may chase fish and sometimes pursue small fish with the bill open and the lower mandible below the water surface. Occasionally, a small flock will pursue schools of minnows in unison, moving and turning together.

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Greater Yellowlegs populations decreased due to market and game hunting activities. There is little information about subsequent trends, but populations seem to have increased and are currently stable. There is little information about predators of Greater Yellowlegs. The vagaries of weather, especially freezing on the breeding grounds, are known to be detrimental. However, Greater Yellowlegs have a broad breeding range that includes a wide variety of habitats. In migration, they do not depend on just a few staging areas, and in winter they use wetlands dispersed throughout Central and South America—all factors that suggest that the Greater Yellowlegs will continue to be one of our more common and conspicuous shorebirds.

William E. Davis, Jr.

Birding Safely and Sanely During the Pandemic of Spring 2020

Sat, 01 Aug 2020 00:00:00 GMT

Closest to home and by far the largest is the Mashpee National Wildlife Refuge (NWR) complex, which comprises nearly 6,000 acres of conservation land. Johns Pond Park, one of my favorite local haunts, is contained within this complex and begins along the shoreline of Johns Pond. A vast network of trails meanders through various types of forest, along a small pond's edge, and through old cranberry bogs that are in various stages of early succession. The combination of habitats and contiguous conservation land makes for a great birding area with an excellent diversity of bird species. The early spring was my favorite here, where during an early morning walk I would almost always hear hooting Barred and Great Horned owls, singing Hermit Thrushes, and drumming Ruffed Grouse.

Just below the southernmost terminus of Mashpee NWR, South Cape Beach quickly became another favorite place to visit. In addition to walking along the beach, one can explore two trails that are vastly different from each other. The Great Flat Pond Loop begins on a short boardwalk along the salt marsh edge and enters the woods where it eventually reaches Flat Pond, a large salt pond with a northern end dominated by cattails. During several visits here, one of my favorite observations of the spring was a Marsh Wren singing in a small wetland dominated by highbush blueberry. I had hoped the bird would attempt to breed because I found it hard to envision what a Marsh Wren nest would look like in a blueberry bush but alas, the bird eventually came to its senses and moved on. The second trail is Dead Neck Trail, which I first explored during Bird-a-thon. Friday evening, May 15, I began Bird-a-thon looking at a Saltmarsh Sparrow that I had previously staked out, and decided to walk the trail—a sandy hike through the dunes that ends where the ocean meets Waquoit Bay—to see what other estuarine or seabird species I could come up with. I had envisioned the walk being a slog since there was a cold, stiff breeze coming from the west. Much to my surprise, as I started my walk the wind died out, giving way to an utter calmness, the radiant, setting sun gently warming. The sheer tranquility of the moment made it impossible to maintain the rush and anxiety of Bird-a-thon, and along the slow, mile walk out to the end of Dead Neck I watched as Horned Larks sang their sweet and delicate songs on the wing and Green Herons hunted in the small salt ponds.

One of humankind's greatest strengths is its adaptability, and the situation we have been in over the last several months serves as a prime example. From adapting the workplace to socializing digitally to birding, we as a species have come up with ways to do these things safely and responsibly. In the case of birding, I believe we have adapted to keep us sane. Luckily, birding is one of the most adaptable hobbies there is; you can travel around the world or not leave home, you can have tons of gear or not use any, you can do it in large groups or do it alone—and for that we are most fortunate.

The Middlesex Canal, Woburn, Massachusetts

Regina Harrison

When the COVID-19 stay-at-home order went into effect, my husband and I found ourselves working from home in North Woburn, where we have lived since 2012. Right away we decided to make a lunchtime walk part of our daily routine and to use those walks to explore parts of the surrounding area where we had never been before. Just up the street from our house, a wide pathway along a narrow waterway leading into some woods beckoned. I had always been curious about those woods but had not previously explored them because I was not certain about the safety of walking there alone. All I knew about the place was that the waterway was part of the Middlesex Canal, according to a sign at the path's far outlet, near the rotary at Exit 35 off Interstate 95/Route 128. The pathway begins at the fork of School and Merrimack streets and ends in the parking lot of the yellow mansion that houses Sichuan Garden and the Baldwin Bar.

It was late March when we first walked down that pathway. It held the legacy of decades of human activity in the form of trash, old tires, and signs of a homeless encampment. There were many invasive plants present, with bittersweet vines galore festooning the trees, but there were also birches, maples, and oaks, some blueberry bushes, and other signs of native plants. All were bare then, but the woods contained promise in the form of plenty of the local winter birds: Blue Jays, Northern Cardinals, Downy and Hairy woodpeckers, Northern Flickers, and a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker. As spring rolled along, these birds were joined by Red-winged Blackbirds, Common Grackles, and American Robins. I noted what looked like some variety of cherry tree getting ready to bloom. Then, finally, on a glorious mid-May afternoon, there they were—spring migrants. Throughout the month of May, the tangled understory lining the path provided wonderful eye-level views of Northern Parulas, Black-and-white Warblers, Palm Warblers, American Redstarts, Blue-headed Vireos, Hermit Thrushes, Baltimore Orioles, Grey Catbirds, and, of course, many Yellow-rumped Warblers gleaning insects from the blooming cherry blossoms. A female Mallard is now raising her brood in the secluded waterway, and a Great Blue Heron regularly visits. All of these riches had been just around the corner from my house for years and I had had no idea. It was a revelation and a gift, a little local patch as consolation for losing the regular spring destinations.

Research on the Middlesex Canal, built in the late 1700s and early 1800s and reaching from Boston to Merrimack, New Hampshire, reveals that many of my regular birding destinations were once along the canal's route, which traveled through Woburn roughly along present-day Route 38 to Horn Pond, down the Aberjona River to the Mystic Lakes, then along the Mystic River to the canal's ultimate end point in Charlestown. Traces of the old canal can be seen all along its route, though much has been filled in and paved over. A dam built in North Billerica to control water flow through the canal flooded hay meadows farther up the watershed, which became permanent wetlands and now form part of the Great Meadows National Wildlife Refuge. As I walk along this little remnant of the once-mighty canal, I am grateful to feel its connection to these other places, making them feel less distant from me, and for showing me that staying at home could be as rewarding as a drive to any of those other places. I look forward already to next spring on the Middlesex Canal.

Covid-19 Birding in Belmont, Massachusetts

Jeffrey Boone Miller

Fig. 1. Northern Rough-winged Swallow at Clay Pit Pond in Belmont on May 3, 2020. Photograph by Jeffrey Boone Miller.

Due to the pandemic, my work closed on March 16, 2020. Soon thereafter, the major birding sites around our suburban home in Belmont, Massachusetts, either closed—Mount Auburn Cemetery—or became too crowded for comfort—Fresh Pond. So, for almost three months, I have birded only in my backyard and on daily walks through local streets and to Clay Pit Pond near our high school. If one is willing to count a neighbor's chickens, as of June 12, my species count for the pandemic era stands at 67. These birds—all seen within a mile of our house—have brought welcome moments of serenity and contemplation. Some highlights follow.

Through the end of March, "Lefty," a Dark-eyed Junco with a distinctive white wing feather (Miller 2019), visited our feeder for the third consecutive winter. In March and April, a red phase Eastern Screech-Owl appeared consistently in a nearby maple tree and became a neighborhood attraction. On March 18, an aggressive Cooper's Hawk harassed a pair of Red-tailed Hawks that were perched in our backyard apple tree. At Clay Pit Pond, a pair of Eastern Kingbirds carried out a courting flight just over my head on May 6, and my discovery of two Prairie Warblers on May 15 doubled my lifetime total for that species. On the mornings of May 18 and 19, I was enveloped by flocks of Cedar Waxwings with their always endearing susurrations and food-sharing behaviors.

Beginning with their arrival on May 3, I also regularly observed a pair of Northern Rough-winged Swallows that frequented the west end of the pond. Particularly during the first half of May, the two birds were usually calling back and forth, and one sometimes perched nearby (Figure 1). On multiple occasions I saw one either enter or exit a four-inch-diameter pipe built into a rock wall where Wellington Brook enters the pond. I hoped they might be using the pipe as a nest, but I did not see the swallows carry nesting material or food and, as of June 12, no youngsters have appeared. Nonetheless, if, as Shakespeare wrote in Richard III, "True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings," then I have lived with hope this spring and I am grateful.

Reference

Miller, J. B. 2019. Heart, Lefty, and Popsicle. A winter with three identifiable Dark-eyed Juncos. Bird Observer 47 (1):39–42.

A New Appreciation for Bird-a-thon in Boxborough

Rita Gibes Grossman

Watching the spring rituals of returning migrants—especially the Carolina Wrens now nesting in our propane tank cover—has been calming amid the uncertainty of the Covid-19 pandemic. Being hard-wired for birding has been a source of comfort and discovery, especially for Mass Audubon's Bird-a-thon. Every year in mid-May during the height of spring migration, Mass Audubon sponsors a friendly, fundraising bird count competition. Usually I would head to the northwestern corner of Massachusetts and spend the night in Florida. This year, everything changed. All species counts had to be accomplished at home or at locations within cycling or walking distance to comply with Covid guidelines. Fortunately, I live in Boxborough where everyone is welcome to walk, hike, and birdwatch. I managed to visit seven conservation areas by walking eleven miles and biking fourteen. Not all of the species I anticipated made an appearance during the twenty-four-hour count window, but the ones that did felt notable to me as if I were rediscovering or seeing them as never before.

At Rolling Meadows Conservation Area, an Ovenbird and a Swainson's Thrush gave me a lengthy viewing and both seemed as interested in checking me out as I them. Ovenbirds, despite being common to every patch of hardwood forest and readily heard with their teacher, teacher, teacher strident call, can be remarkably difficult to spot. As ground nesters and low canopy and below occupants, these warblers have a voice that seems to project beyond its small source. While walking the main wooded trail, I caught movement in low branches and there was the Ovenbird—constantly moving but giving me a brief penetrating look at its white eye ring, stunning streaked chest, and brown and orange striped crown as it rapidly and quietly foraged for insects. It was a FOY (First of the Year) sighting for me despite having heard many.

With pure luck, as this species tends to be heard and not seen, I found the Swainson's Thrush perched on a sapling branch at eye level on the lower trail near the stream. It seemed as if we both were processing each other's presence. Catharus ustulatus was named after the English ornithologist William John Swainson probably in the late 1700s. A shrub nester, the Swainson's Thrush winters in Central and northern South America and breeds in the forests of North America, so the only option for local sightings is during migration. Although these species are common and not threatened, seeing them this year felt different. I had other recent sightings of Swainson's Thrushes in our yard and an Ovenbird continues to define his territory in the woods west of our house, but seeing them as I did felt like a reward for local Bird-a-thon observation.

Additional sighting highlights included Brown Thrasher, Eastern Towhee, and Prairie Warbler near Beaver Brook Road on the Cisco System's campus, which has accessible conserved parcels; Chestnut-sided Warbler at Patch Hill Conservation Area; Green Heron and Winter Wren on the Hager Land trails; Yellow-rumped Warblers and Northern Parula at Inches Woods; and Bobolink and Northern Waterthrush at Steele Farm. I birded the Boxborough Station Wildlife Management Area (WMA) owned by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts for the nesting Great Blue Herons, Osprey, and Eastern Kingbird, among many others. The Wood Ducks and Hooded Mergansers have been quite visible at the WMA, except neither species cooperated for the count. At the end of the count I had 72 species, which I had hoped would be higher. But still I felt a sense of accomplishment and had counted all without burning fossil fuels.

If you have reason to be near Boxborough, a ten-square-mile, inland, headwater environment with ponds, streams, wooded uplands, and a few meadows, there are excellent birding destinations. The town's website includes the local conservation lands with trails as downloadable PDF maps and a link to OpenStreetMap, an interactive, free app for your smart phone. See https://www.boxborough-ma.gov/conservation-commission/pages/conservation-trail-maps.

Through the migrants and resident species we are watching, birders of all ethnicities, races, and points of view are united in our shared passion for birds and together we will endure this pandemic. We must as there are more birds to be counted.

Neighborhood Nestwatch

Joshua Rose

Fig. 2. Eastern Phoebe with unique combination of colored bands. Photograph by Joshua Rose.

Covid-19 definitely wreaked havoc on birding during the spring of 2020: places were closed, or open but too crowded for comfort—not only birding hotspots but also bathrooms and food sources; greatly-multiplied household chores took time out of the day; trips, meetings, and activities were cancelled, along with virtually all out-of-town travel. This spring, I rarely left our neighborhood, and many days barely went outside. We live in a nice location, our yard is part of a large wooded area, but you can only get so many species in one habitat.

Birding in our yard does have one added dimension, though, one that I can't really get anywhere else. Several years ago, I volunteered our yard for the Smithsonian Neighborhood Nestwatch program. Every year from 2012 to 2019, Nestwatch sent someone to our yard to mist-net and band certain species, not only with the usual metal bands but also with colored plastic bands, a unique color combination on each individual of a species. In return, I've been keeping my eyes peeled for those color-banded birds and keeping a file of my sightings that I periodically send back to Nestwatch for inclusion in their data. My desk at home where I work just happens to have the best view of most of my birdfeeders, so more time at home has translated to more feeder watching, and lots of sightings of banded birds.

Before the Covid-19 shutdown began, I'd seen only two Nestwatch birds in 2020, a pair of Northern Cardinals. The male is our oldest and longest-surviving bird, banded in 2014. He's been through a few mates in that time; his partner of the past few years is a female banded in 2018. On April 7, about two weeks after most things closed, an Eastern Phoebe showed up, one that was banded last summer (Figure 2). Of four phoebes banded over the years, this was the first time I'd ever re-sighted one after it was banded. In May things got much busier because the catbirds returned. Not only are both of the catbirds that were banded last summer back this year, but three of the four that were banded in 2018 are back, too. Here is one random curveball: a Carolina Wren that was banded last summer appeared fairly regularly throughout the fall, through December 12, then disappeared—until May 27. Carolina Wrens visit my feeder pretty much year-round, and previously banded birds have stuck around through all seasons, so I figured that this one was gone for good. Surprise.

For more information about the Smithsonian's Neighborhood Nestwatch, go to https://nationalzoo.si.edu/migratory-birds/neighborhood-nestwatch.

The Outfall Pipe

Jay Shetterly

Fig. 3. Plaque on the Anderson Memorial Bridge, Cambridge. Photograph by Jay Shetterly.

For many years, the Massachusetts Water Resources Authority and the City of Cambridge have been working to replace the old combination sewer and stormwater systems that discharge combined sewer overflows into the Charles River. The project is not quite finished and on days when there is a light covering of ice on the river, there is open water near the outfall pipes.

There is an outfall pipe at the Weeks Footbridge. Birds seem to know this spot, including Common and Hooded mergansers, Black-crowned Night-Heron, and Great Blue Heron. On June 10, 2020, I saw a Northern Rough-winged Swallow here, a first for me in Cambridge. In the three-meter wide band of scrub lining the water's edge are pair after pair of Song Sparrows, rarely seen in the neighborhoods nearby.

If there is no bird of interest, one need only look upstream to the Anderson Memorial Bridge and imagine Quentin Compson of William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, despairing of himself and the South, jumping to his death. Devotees of Faulkner—like me—placed a small plaque there to mark Quentin's passing (Figure 3).

Bird-a-thoning During a Pandemic

Wayne R. Petersen

Mass Audubon's annual Bird-a-thon (BAT) was, for most participants this spring, a unique experience. The Covid-19 pandemic imposed significant changes in the overall BAT protocol this year, primary of which was encouraging birders to confine their birding activities pretty much to their yard or local areas within walking or bicycling distance of home. These constraints were aimed at complying with the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention's and state-mandated social distancing and health guidelines, and at minimizing the carbon footprint of individual birders.

My own BAT experiences this year were remarkable in several ways. Having downsized to Linden Ponds (LP) in Hingham in February 2019, I am now residing in a retirement community comprising 1200–1300 mostly senior citizens. Accordingly, my living circumstances approached near lockdown conditions since March, a circumstance that also restricted my typical BAT activities. There was a silver lining to this situation, however. By confining my BAT birding only to the Linden Ponds community footprint and one short adjoining street, I was successfully able to locate 66 species between 6 pm on May 15 and 6 pm on May 16. This total exceeded my collective list of species seen since I moved to this retirement community over a year ago.

My solo birding adventures began Friday evening under propitious conditions involving warming 70-degree temperatures and light southwest winds. The forecast also called for rain during the night, with clearing conditions by morning. This combination provided some of the best mid-May birding conditions that one could hope for in Massachusetts. My early evening wildlife highlight was a brief look at a lovely gray fox, along with a resident Red-tailed Hawk, and a selection of some of the common local songbirds including Red-bellied Woodpecker, Great Crested Flycatcher, Fish Crow, Carolina Wren, House Finch, American Goldfinch, Chipping Sparrow, Baltimore Oriole, and Northern Cardinal. Not unhappy with some of my local resident species, I optimistically prepared for a more intense search in the morning, hoping the weather would deliver some welcome birding treasures.

At 6 am on Saturday, I was out on the 0.8-mile local nature trail poised for signs of newly arrived migrants, and I was not disappointed. A Veery quietly hopping on the trail in front of me was quickly followed by a Least Flycatcher and the liquid whit note of a Swainson's Thrush on the wooded hillside to my right. Three first LP birds for my list. Ecstatic and optimistic as I quietly birded along the trail, I soon added Ovenbird and Rose-breasted Grosbeak to my list. Exiting the gate at the end of the LP nature trail, I began birding the roadside trees and thickets on a short but quiet street running parallel to the LP complex. This is where the fun began. I quickly found another Veery and a couple more Swainson's Thrushes, and then heard singing Black-and-white, Nashville, Northern Parula, Chestnut-sided, Yellow-rumped, and Black-throated Green warblers. My dream for a decent migration was coming true.

As I continued to work the roadside trees and an adjacent swampy thicket during my quest for new species, I was practically mesmerized by every new species I recorded. Remember, this was not only more species than I'd ever recorded in my local patch, but it was also the first dedicated birding I'd been able to do in nearly two months. As the morning continued, other additions included a fly-by Solitary Sandpiper, Eastern Kingbird, Northern Rough-winged Swallow, Eastern Bluebird nesting in the LP community garden, a most unexpected Lincoln's Sparrow, and additional warblers including Common Yellowthroat, American Redstart, Magnolia, Bay-breasted, Black-throated Blue, Pine, and Wilson's. Even such long-distance migrants as Chimney Swift, Ruby-throated Hummingbird, and Barn Swallow made it on to my BAT roster.

I could not have been more thrilled to see even some of the common species, because each glimpse, and each song, provided renewed promise that even during a global pandemic, birds and bird migration live on to brighten our lives, if only we get outdoors to have a look. For this reason alone, BAT 2020 will forever be memorable in my mind, not just because of the terrific migration, but also because of the positive impact it made on me, given all the other dark events taking place in the world at the same time. Birds and birding rule!

Birding Plum Island in Peak Spring Migration during a Pandemic

Sean Williams

Fig. 4. The Goodno Woods crossing on the morning of May 11, 2020, with no people. Photograph by Sean Williams.

Parker River National Wildlife Refuge closed to motor vehicles on April 17, 2020, and remained closed throughout the duration of spring migration. However, pedestrians and bicyclists were permitted through the gates all the way down to Sandy Point State Reservation. This closure yielded a unique opportunity to bird the refuge road on foot during peak migration without disruption from motorized vehicles. Those who appreciate birding away from crowds on occasion may have reveled in the empty roads and eye-level Blackburnian Warblers along the S-curves. Goodno Woods on the morning of May 15 was eerily devoid of human life, despite the peak date and pleasant conditions (Figure 4). Below I describe some birding highlights at Plum Island in spring 2020 during the Covid-19 pandemic when many of normal societal operations were placed on hold.

Between April 26 and May 26, I visited the refuge five times, walked or biked 30 miles over 40 hours, and tallied 170 species. Typically, I arrived pre-dawn and departed around noon. On most days, I saw my first person around 8:00 am. April 26 was remarkably slow and non-speciose. Despite the late-April date and NEXRAD radar showing a pulse of migrants overnight, I tallied only one warbler, a Common Yellowthroat, beyond the expected Palm, Pine, and Yellow-rumped. Warblers were more diverse the following visit on May 3, totaling 11 species. While standing around the pines at The Wardens, I watched a flock of 22 ibises that flew north along the road, totally backlit by the sun. Given that flocks of ibis this size are unusual on the island, I photographed the flock on the off chance that not all of the ibises were Glossys. Indeed, upon returning home and brightening the images on the computer, one White-faced Ibis stuck out with its scarlet face with a thick white border. By May 11, peak warbler diversity hit 23 species, including an Orange-crowned and a "Western" Palm Warbler, both of which are more common in the fall migration than in spring.

On my final visit on May 26, the tail end of migration was characterized by many female or first-spring male warblers. Three Olive-sided Flycatchers were dotted along the S-curves south to the Bill Forward Blind. The main highlight that morning was seeing all six vireo species. Red-eyed Vireo is a given, but on that date even Blue-headed can be scarce. Warblings, which do not breed on Plum Island, are on territory by then. Regardless, both species were at Goodno Woods and Sandy Point. A Yellow-throated was singing at Goodno Woods, as was a White-eyed. Another White-eyed was singing south of the North Pool Overlook. Notably, these were the fourth and fifth White-eyed Vireos I'd detected on Plum this spring, which typically is a rare and sought-after migrant. Finally, a Philadelphia chided me in a tree across from Stage Island..

Although strenuous, the chance to bike and walk Plum Island without vehicular traffic during the pandemic was, I hope, a once-in-a-life-time occurrence. Fortunately, in early June the refuge reopened fully so that all can enjoy.

Pandemic Pileateds

Marsha C. Salett

Fig. 5. Pileated Woodpecker excavations are recent here, judging by the fresh wood chips around the base of the tree. Photograph by Marsha C. Salett.

It was New Year's Day and a Pileated Woodpecker was in my front yard extricating beetle grubs from the upper trunk of a tall oak—a FOY bird and a first sighting at my house. What an auspicious beginning to the year, I thought (although this is not the adjective I'd choose now to describe 2020). A week later, a Pileated flew over my next-door neighbor's house. When I returned home on February 1 from three weeks in Japan, I heard and saw a Pileated drumming on a tree next to my driveway.

A pair of Pileated Woodpeckers seems to nest annually, albeit in different locations, at Ridge Hill Reservation, Needham, the 352-acre conservation land that abuts my property. Breeding pairs stay on their territory all year and, according to Birds of the World, may retain the same territory for several years, averaging a distance of 0.53 kilometer (0.33 mile) between subsequent nesting sites (Bull and Jackson 2020). Would the Ridge Hill Pileateds nest near me in 2020?

Thanks to the pandemic, I was home to find out. Covid-19 kept me in Needham instead of traveling, and birding Ridge Hill instead of Mount Auburn during spring migration. I birded my patch almost every day and spent a lot of time looking out my windows. From March 1 through June 1, I saw one or both Pileated Woodpeckers 15 times within a half-mile radius of home: seven times around my house and eight times at Ridge Hill. Most years, I'm lucky to see or hear a Pileated two or three times. I also saw many signs of excavations and the telltale rectangular holes that they make (Figure 5).

My delight and fascination with the Pileated Woodpeckers grew with each encounter. On March 1, I looked out my kitchen window to see the male foraging on the ground on a dead tree that had fallen. All afternoon, he returned to the rotting log, staying for 10–20 minutes at a time. I never saw him there again.

I was surprised by how often the Pileateds foraged low, anywhere from the base of a tree to eye level. In the dull gray of the early spring forest, a crimson flash revealed the presence of a bird when it was quietly stripping bark or feeding on carpenter ants. On two occasions, a Pileated spiraled up a tree trunk like a huge—and more colorful—Brown Creeper, then flew away, fading into the dark conifers.

On April 16, I heard the pair duetting in my backyard and went outside to find them just before they flew across the trail in front of a mother and two children who were astonished by these large birds and the eye-popping contrast of their black and white wings. Stopped in their tracks, they asked me, "What are those birds?" As I walked back to the house, I could hear the kids still chattering about the Pileateds.

When the trees started to leaf out in May, Ridge Hill's red maple swamp was a magical place, glistening green in the sunlight of early morning. Eastern Towhees and Common Yellowthroats joined the bird chorus, which was soon punctuated by several Ovenbirds. Even they were no match for the raucous cuk-cuk-cuk-cuk-cuk-cuk-cuk duetting of the Pileateds that reverberated through the swamp. I heard them calling back and forth across the swamp a couple of times in May.

My most memorable encounter with a Pileated occurred on April 21, another bleak and raw spring day in New England. I was looking for a Brown Creeper nest under the bark of a dead white pine at the edge of the beaver swamp. The pine has been a favorite nesting tree for the creepers. This year, the first nest had been blown away in a storm a couple of days earlier and I wanted to see if they renested. I saw one of the creepers fly from the dead pine to an oak on the other side of the trail. The next moment, the male Pileated flew out of the forest and landed on a horizontal branch of the dead pine. Oblivious to me, he sat there and called repeatedly—no more than eight feet above my head. With every cuk, he opened his long stout bill only slightly and his throat quivered. I could see his face in exquisite detail: the blazing red crest and red cheek stripe, black stripe under the crest, the white stripe across his face and down his neck. What a handsome bird.

The Brown Creeper flew back to the pine and scuttled up the trunk: tiny, cryptic, inconspicuous. The Pileated Woodpecker called from his perch: large, flashy, loud. Two species, so different, each so cool in its own way. My spirits rose, transcending the weather, transcending the pandemic.

Reference

Bull, E. L. and J. A. Jackson. (2020). Pileated Woodpecker (Dryocopus pileatus), version 1.0. In Birds of the World (A. F. Poole, Editor). Cornell Lab of Ornithology, Ithaca, NY, USA. https://doi.org/10.2173/bow.pilwoo.01

Whip-poor-will Dream

Sat, 01 Aug 2020 00:00:00 GMT

image from the front cover of Flight Calls

I love that whip-poor-wills exist. On the cover of my book Flight Calls, a beautiful Audubon painting captures their postures, a tail flashing white in flight. The chapter "Whip-poor-will Synchronicity" tells the story of a strange conjunction between a whip-poor-will in our yard, legendary local birders Jerry Soucy and Larry Jodrey, and a haunting whip-poor-will chorus at the end of William Faulkner's story "Barn Burning." The ancient sound transports me back in time, before Europeans came to North America, before the first people on our continent, moving east, reached the Mississippi River, the eons when woodlands resounded with whip-poor-wills with no humans to hear them. Native American tribes named the bird onomatopoetically. In rural novels like Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings's The Yearling and Elizabeth Madox Roberts's The Time of Man, generations pass on the knowledge that the whip-poor-will's first song signals the time for planting. Now, strangers across eastern North American are joined together at night by the same instant thrill of recognition: I hear a whip-poor-will.

The bird sings on. I've been watching a panel of six Black birders on Black Birders Week. Their discussion is delightfully ordinary. They could be any birders anywhere, telling stories and making jokes about warblers, rambunctious Blue Jays, grackles testing the boundaries of dissonance, neighborhood nightjars. It's a vision of a future to work for, a time when it will be mundane to see Black people gathered to chat about birds, a time when anyone can know the freedom to go birding without fear, the freedom to walk alone down a dark country road to get a closer listen to whip-poor-wills.

The bird is still singing when I go to bed. What songs will be part of the soundscape in my patch a century from now? Will the people who come after me know the songs of Eastern Towhees, Eastern Meadowlarks, Eastern Whip-poor-wills? I've been birding alone during this pandemic, missing old friends, never quite unentangled from anxiety, but I'm encouraged by all the people suddenly attuned to the birds around them. They share their excitement on Facebook. A Baltimore Oriole at the hummingbird feeder! My first Rose-breasted Grosbeak! Was that a whip-poor-will I heard? They're paying attention. We don't need to go on field trips to find nature. Nature is wherever we live.

When I wake before first light, the whip-poor-will is there. "Never hope more than you work," says pioneering aviator Beryl Markham in West with the Night. Whatever else it may be, the whip-poor-will's song is a work song. This bird is not giving up.

Revisiting Bird-Window Collisions in Boston: The First Year of the Avian Collision Team (ACT)

Sat, 01 Aug 2020 00:00:00 GMT

Sometimes befuddling patterns emerged in Wiggin's data. "If a birder were to bird only the Prudential Center," Wiggin wrote, they "might come to some weird conclusions" regarding the relative abundance and timing of migrants. For example, nearly half of Wiggin's 7,000-plus observations were of White-throated Sparrows. More strikingly, the sparrow and finch family (which was then considered taxonomically valid) outnumbered all other birds by seven to one. Lincoln's Sparrows, Orange-crowned Warblers, and Marsh Wrens were unusually frequent, but there were almost no records of diurnal migrants, such as swallows or American Robins. Birdsong at the Pru was rare, and almost all migrants were placidly approachable within a few feet.

Surprisingly, very little has been published on window strikes in Boston since Wiggin's article. Even after collision monitoring programs in Chicago, New York, and other major cities entered their second decade, there was no coordinated, multi-observer effort in Massachusetts until last year. Mass Audubon moved to pilot a monitoring program in 2019 after advocacy for bird-safe building practices ran up against local disbelief. In the absence of recent nearby evidence, many nonbirders were skeptical that this global issue existed in their city. Consequently, the Avian Collision Team (ACT) was born.

ACT was invented as a hybrid between the standardized, rigorous studies normally under the purview of a research institution and the more casual volunteer programs common in most cities. For example, one goal is to clarify how common collisions are on an average block rather than just monitoring at the most collision-prone sites. We select several random sites in addition to buildings already predicted to be strike-prone, and we ask volunteers to record negative data (i.e., where casualties were not found as much as where they were). Volunteers pick a route that they can regularly survey, and we try to ensure that all routes are surveyed during the same early morning period on the same four days of the week.

But data is not the only point of the program. Though we may eventually be able to estimate how many birds die from window collisions annually in Boston, the priority is to raise awareness about the issue, collect stories, and think about solutions at a site-by-site and citywide basis. Volunteer programs have their vulnerabilities and getting clean, noise-free data from a group of mostly casual observers may yet prove to be a pipe dream. Another obstacle, at least for the moment, is the variability between migration seasons, which makes generalizing based on one year of data difficult. Most local birders will remember the fall of 2019 as one of the weakest and strangest fall migrations in memory, which serves to drive home the need for several years of work. Furthermore, Covid-19 made sampling a complete wash for the spring 2020 season and may yet require a total reimagining of the project.

With that said, the initial results from 2019 will be of interest to curious birders. ACT participants recorded 193 strikes across 51 species while monitoring four days a week during spring and fall migration. Just over two-thirds of bird strikes documented so far have been immediately fatal, with the lucky remainder being sent to Tufts Wildlife Clinic for treatment or, sadly, euthanasia.

White-throated Sparrows have been the most prevalent species at nearly 20% of the total so far, with Ovenbirds and Common Yellowthroats being close runners-up. New York's monitoring programs report a similar species composition. ACT volunteers have turned up a few surprises, including six Lincoln's Sparrows, a Virginia Rail, a Belted Kingfisher, and, most notably, a Clay-colored Sparrow and a Nelson's Sparrow found at the same site on the same day. Birds that are weak flyers or that habitually fly low are especially well-represented, as are tree-climbing birds like sapsuckers, nuthatches, and Brown Creepers.

Surprisingly, nearly 50% of the strikes reported by ACT volunteers came from just two sites—one college campus and one city-block-sized glass-clad building. Many buildings have only caused one or two strikes so far, a few have yet to be observed causing any, and a handful punch above their weight, so to speak. But this should not leave any reader with the impression that window strikes, at a regional scale, are concentrated at a handful of buildings. In fact, a nationwide study showed that 80–90% of strikes occurred at one-to-three-story residences (Loss et al. 2014). Even though only one to three strikes per year occur at the average residence, compared to an average of 22 at low-rise commercial or office buildings and 25 at skyscrapers, the sheer number of residences gives them the lion's share of the total.

All in all, that same study—authored by scientists at the Smithsonian Institution and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service—estimated that window collisions kill between 365 and 988 million birds annually.

There is plenty of debate about whether these deaths are additive or compensatory— that is, whether window strikes actually contribute to population declines or whether they remove "extra" individuals that would fail to reproduce because of some other limiting factor such as habitat destruction. Indeed, one paper (Arnold & Zink 2011) showed that the most collision-prone species—such as Wiggin's White-throated Sparrows—were not the species exhibiting the most dramatic continent-wide declines. But this observation could easily be confounded by the intensification or reduction of other stressors at the species level. Even if other factors drive the species' overall trend, window strikes can still have an additive impact.

The estimate of nearly one billion annual fatal collisions from Loss et al. may seem high, but the numbers check out with reports from monitoring programs in most cities, as does preliminary data from ACT. While our current numbers may seem high, looking at historical data like Henry Wiggin's draws attention to how much worse the problem may have been in past decades.

ACT has not recorded any of the avian mass mortality events that Wiggin reported in his 1974 Bird Observer article, either at the Prudential Center or elsewhere. In fact, the most active morning for strikes at the Pru in 2019 yielded five birds, and the highest total anywhere else was only eleven birds. At least at the Pru, this may be explained by the significant changes to the building's interior courtyards. The North Garden is completely gone, as are the moats at the bases of the courtyard windows where Wiggin observed hundreds of drowned window-stunned birds. The lighting has changed too, and light pollution in the city has increased, making the Pru less of an isolated beacon for migrants. Indeed, window collisions may have simply become more diffuse throughout the city as more glass façades have gone up. One pattern beginning to emerge in our data—and already backed up by long-term data in other cities—is that more exposed buildings draw more strikes. Glass-clad buildings surrounded by dense development are much less hazardous than similar-looking buildings that stand alone in a grassy field or facing open habitat.

But it is also worth considering a darker possibility—that there are that many fewer migrants in the skies than in the 1970s. Other reports of building strikes, some much older than Wiggin's observations, contain some truly shocking numbers. Colonel Tassin at the Statue of Liberty counted 1,400 birds killed by the Statue's torch one night in 1888; another night, he counted 50 rails (Wilson 1888). To be sure, scientists have thoroughly documented declines of about 30% across all North American birds in the past fifty years (Rosenberg et al. 2019), but declines of that magnitude would still not fully explain some of the more extreme historical reports of window collisions.

Birders interested in mitigating window collisions at their homes or offices have several options. The most popular options are not necessarily the best. Individual stick-on window decals, commonly sold in the shape of a hawk's silhouette, do nothing unless they are affixed in a regular pattern with no gaps greater than two inches by four inches. Birds will aim around a decal to try to access what they see in a window reflection, and the silhouette of an inexplicably stationary hawk will do little to stop them. Decals or window tape that reflect only UV light—clear to us, but opaque to birds—are a great option when placed no more than two inches apart, and there are a number of companies (e.g., CollideEscape) producing them. Anything else that breaks up reflections in a window works well, from installing screens that also shield incoming birds from the hard glass surface to drawing with soap suds or dry-erase markers. There are more expensive options for commercial buildings, including specialty UV-coated glass brands such as OrniLux or AviProtek. Finally, though it may seem counterintuitive, moving existing birdfeeders to within 1.5 feet of a window can help protect birds from collisions by preventing incoming birds from picking up the speed required for a strike to result in a fatality.

The ACT welcomes inquiries. If you are interested in volunteering with ACT, want to report window-struck birds, or have general questions, contact Will Freedberg at williamfreedberg@gmail.com.

References

Arnold, T. W. and R. M. Zink. 2011. Collision mortality has no discernible effect on population trends of North American birds. PLOS ONE ٦(٩):e24708. doi: 10.1371/journal.pone.0024708.
Loss, S. R., T. Will, S. S. Loss, and P.P. Marra. 2014. Bird-building collisions in the United States: estimates of annual mortality and species vulnerability. The Condor ١١٦ (1):8–23.
Rosenberg, K. V., A. M. Dokter, P. J. Blancher, J. R. Sauer, A. C. Smith, A. P. Smith, J. C. Stanton, A. Panjabi, L. Helft, M. Parr, and P. Marra. 2019. Decline of the North American Avifauna. Science 366:120–124.
Wiggin, H. T. 1974. Birding at the Prudential Center. Bird Observer 2 (5):136-140.
Wilson, V. T. 1888. Killed By Liberty's Torch. The Oologist's Exchange, 1:1(1).

William Freedberg writes, conducts field surveys, and coordinates citizen science programs for the Bird Conservation department at Mass Audubon. He coordinates the Avian Collision Team (ACT). He lives near Boston and spends several weeks each year leading tours in the neotropics.

Hearing Aids for Birders

Sat, 01 Aug 2020 00:00:00 GMT

On our drive back to Massachusetts, Nancy and I had a talk about how to solve this widespread problem. Surely, we thought, there had to be a solution for a problem that afflicted so many older birders. Could hearing aids be the solution? It was worth a shot, so I made an appointment with an audiologist. Though Medicare does not cover hearing aids, some supplemental plans do, such as Tufts, and, depending on your plan, Blue Cross/Blue Shield may provide generous coverage. It doesn't hurt to check.

My hearing test produced a frequency response diagram of my ears which compared loudness—from loud to soft sounds—to pitch frequency, which is measured in kilohertz (kHz). Typically, you would like to see a straight, horizontal line across the graph. Mine, however, showed a dip, indicating hearing loss, at the higher frequencies. A hearing aid can be used to fill these dips by amplifying high frequencies. Some more expensive models will even shift high frequencies down into the range that one can hear.

Many birds have songs that cover a wide range of frequencies, so, even if you may not hear the whole song, at least you can hear a portion. Some birds, however, such as Blackpoll and Magnolia warblers, have songs with a narrow range. If you have lost hearing above 7 kHz, then you will not hear these birds sing. If you can identify songs you have difficulty hearing, you can use those songs to test your hearing aids.

Maybe you are thinking that hearing aids are a bit extreme for your situation. A theoretical solution could be a directional microphone, to filter out noise not in the direction of the song, paired with a headset and a graphic equalizer, to boost high frequencies. I tried this approach with a Rode VideoMic and Apple earbuds paired with an iPhone Xr. The hardware appeared to work, but there was no way to feed it through an app as the earbuds had to connect directly to the microphone. I did not try Bluetooth earbuds or every graphic equalizer app, so a solution to this problem could be out there.

A few fellow birders in similar circumstances shared their solutions. Dennis Skillman uses Walker's Game Ear(s) when birding. He recommended the models with two earpieces for easier location of the bird. He has two HD Elite models. Another birder reported that Bose Hearphones (that's the actual name) work well for hearing birdsong. They go for about $500.

Most people think that hearing aids are expensive and you need an audiologist to buy one. That is not true. Devices called PSAPs (Personal Sound Amplification Products) can be bought by consumers, without the need of an audiologist. I bought a pair for $200 from Olive Union (https://www.olive.store/en/), a start-up in Korea that was funded by Kickstarter. The Olive devices come with an iPhone app that lets you do your own hearing test and then programs the devices using the results of the test. The device also allows you to boost the high frequencies.

I took my new Olives to Crooked Pond in Boxford for a trial run. Unfortunately, I couldn't detect any difference. These devices automatically carry out noise reduction in order to enhance voice recognition. So what do they make of a bird call? They think it is noise. For the Olives I bought, noise reduction could not be turned off, though the manufacturer plans to include that feature in a later release. If you search the web for "PSAP hearing aid" you will find many devices. Birders, however, need one without noise reduction.

Because my hearing test produced that dip at higher frequencies, I was eligible for hearing aid coverage through my health plan. I then set about finding the optimum hearing aid for my situation. There are several manufacturers of high-end hearing aids and most audiologists will carry more than one brand. Their goal is to help you pick one that works best for you. However, because a birder's criteria are different from a normal consumer, it is difficult to find an audiologist with the appropriate experience. My first experience with an audiologist was not successful, as they were not interested in understanding my needs.

I next tried a place in Newburyport, hoping they would have experience with birders. I found a very enthusiastic audiologist, however the brand they sold, Resound, had only three adjustable frequency bands. When the audiologist tried to compensate for my dip, the added gain caused unwanted feedback.

I then went looking for a brand with more frequency bands and I discovered the Signia Styletto. It had 48 channels., which was twice as many as another device by Phonak. The Signia receiver bandwidth also went beyond 10 kHz, whereas the Phonak barely got to 8 kHz. More importantly, I found an audiologist in North Andover who was interested in my problem. She even had me meet the Signia sales representative. The lesson is that most audiologists do not understand birdsong, so one needs to shop around for one who does.

To test my new hearing aids, I bought a sound pressure meter with a bandwidth greater than 10 kHz to calibrate my measurements. I used the Sibley Bird App V2 on my iPhone Xs to generate the songs, choosing the first song for each species. I went outside and set the iPhone song volume at 90 dBa and then measured how far away I could still hear the song.

The following is a table of the distances at which I could hear different songs with and without the hearing aid.

Species	Song	Frequency	Distance (ft) with no hearing aid	Distance (ft) with Signia hearing aid
Tufted Titmouse	Peter-peter-peter	3 kHz	140	185
Black-throated Green Warbler	Zee-zee-zoo-zee	4-5 kHz	5	60
Pine Warbler	Trill	4-5 kHz	25	125
Blackpoll Warbler	Tsit-tsit-tsit	8-10 kHz	20	150
Cape May Warbler	Seet-seet-seet	8-10 kHz	10	110

I was very happy with my results. I found it was possible to get a five-fold to ten-fold improvement in hearing birdsong. The Signia Styletto is rechargeable and can hold a charge for three days. I keep it in my car plugged into a USB port so it is always ready when I decide to go birding.

Based on my experience, my recommendations to birders looking for similar results are as follows:

Check your insurance to see what they will pay and if there are in-network providers.
Get a professional hearing test.
If insurance won't pay very much, then go to Costco. If insurance will pay a good portion, then consider a local shop carrying one of the major manufacturers.
Pick out birdsong that you have a hard time hearing, so you can show the audiologist what you want to hear.
When selecting a hearing aid, look for the ability to turn OFF all noise canceling. As far as I'm concerned, this is the number one feature. I wouldn't consider any aid that you cannot turn off noise canceling.
To cover the range of most birdsong, be sure that the receiver bandwidth extends to >10 kHz.
Determine if the aid can work as a directional microphone. This feature might be useful when trying to listen in a marsh.
Determine if the aid can shift high frequencies to a lower band. This feature could be useful if you have significant high-frequency loss.

Also, most of the cost of the hearing aid is dealing with noise reduction for voice. So, if you can hold a conversation, you should be able to use the low-end of most hearing aids.

With all the technology out there, things are constantly changing but this account will give you a good idea of my process. I'm happy to answer further questions at my email address below. Here's hoping you will hear those birds you thought were lost to time.

August 2020

Front Cover: August 2020

Greater Yellowlegs

Birding Safely and Sanely During the Pandemic of Spring 2020

The Middlesex Canal, Woburn, Massachusetts

Covid-19 Birding in Belmont, Massachusetts

Reference

A New Appreciation for Bird-a-thon in Boxborough

Neighborhood Nestwatch

The Outfall Pipe

Bird-a-thoning During a Pandemic

Birding Plum Island in Peak Spring Migration during a Pandemic

Pandemic Pileateds

Reference

Whip-poor-will Dream

Revisiting Bird-Window Collisions in Boston: The First Year of the Avian Collision Team (ACT)

References

Hearing Aids for Birders

Further Reading