Spring’s Landscape Delights the Senses
The annual migration of birds coincides with nature’s rebirth, which alters the landscape. Birding in early spring begins with barren terrain and over the course of a few weeks, as Mother Nature sketches a work in progress, the vista changes the whole time, delighting the senses.
Cool, crisp early mornings are one of the sensory delights of birding. However one morning at the Basha Kill Wildlife Management Area in southern New York, a cold breeze makes me wish I’d worn another layer. Tall bare trees stand waiting for spring’s green to begin covering them. The wetlands are swollen from heavy winter snows and recent spring rains. A large raptor languidly flies over the water and settles into a tree on an island. Getting my scope on the bird reveals an eagle’s white head and a deeply hooked yellow bill in the midst of bright greenery.
Walking along a path between two bodies of water a black and white duck rises against the backdrop of tall trees. As it climbs, the two-toned bird takes on a sharpness and clarity like that of HD technology. Instead of settling onto one of the trees’ limbs the duck hangs a left, going between an opening in the trees and sails out of sight. There’s a male mallard near shore with an oddly teal colored head. Normally its head is a dark green. Is it the light? Closer to shore in some reeds is a drab brown female mallard that paddles out to deeper water at our approach. One of the curiosities about birds is that males are often brighter and more colorful, especially in their breeding plumage, than the females.
As we walk I’m struck that my brother, my wife and I are among the very few people here. We climb a viewing platform and see a number of Canada geese in tan horseshoe-shaped patterns of reeds peacefully paddling shielded from prying human eyes. In the light blue water reflections of grasses are startlingly clear. Below the platform on some thin branches at water’s edge is a bird with what appears to be some wine coloring but isn’t a green heron, which has that color. It’s smaller and appears to be a flycatcher. I note the hammerhead shape, bold wing coloration as it flits from branch to branch so I can later identify it with a field guide.
Walking back along the path, which was once a railroad line, there are a number of wetlands’ habitués; male red-winged blackbirds. These birds have two epaulets on their shoulders, one red and one yellow. Partially hidden by the reeds or branches on which they are perched I can see only the yellow epaulet, which is almost pale enough to be white but will become brighter in the ensuing weeks. Oddly they aren’t making their usual metallic, clicking sound to announce that this is their territory.
A few days later at home on another cool morning, a plumped up robin perches on a fence slat on our patio. Its rust-colored breast is bright in the morning sun and the breeze raises some of its feathers. Then the robin sidesteps from slat to slat to post until it reaches the end, where it turns and flies into the wind. What agility. A few days later at twilight, again a plumped up robin is at the same part of the fence looking out at fog, which has settled in. The scene is perfect for an English countryside murder mystery. The bird flies a short distance to a tall tree in front of our house, which is covered in spring’s first buds. There it looks out for a long time. I go out with binoculars to watch it. The bird’s head looks like black suede and has a broken white-eye ring. It slowly turns a coal black eye on me but returns its gaze to tall trees increasingly shrouded in fog. I think I get it. The robin’s a mystery writer hatching a plot.
There are some days when the landscape alone gets my attention. One afternoon in Huntington on a cool, breezy, gray afternoon I’m about to get into my car. My eye falls on tall trees, which stand above a cemetery covered in spring’s pale green buds almost to their tops. Spring’s greenery is yet to reach there; it’s a painting in progress. The streets are lined with mustard green petals that look like a sprinkling of green snow, perhaps seen only in dreams.
A few days later it’s a warm sunny day on the Greenbelt Trail. Going around a curve on the path I catch sight of a robin in the air with something large in its bill. Landing on a branch the robin turns in my direction showing a bill full of mulch, which it drops. Then in a flurry of lined brown wings and its rust breast, the bird flies toward me with a small bit still stuck on its yellow bill. The bird’s small bill opens and lets out a two-call note. The sound is so soft that one might hear it without being fully aware of it. The bird seems to be looking into the distance. It repeats this sound a few times. I’m intrigued because this last time, the sound is higher and louder. Then a similar sound comes from the direction that the bird is facing. The robin makes no more sounds but moves its face slightly to one side, then another, looking intently. For a second it stays there and I wonder if this is an adult bird that had been carrying nest material? Is it calling to a mate incubating eggs or perhaps an adventurous fledging that may have strayed too far for a parent’s comfort? The robin flies, leaving me with no answer but it has created another spring scene that delights.
