Our village grows sleepy every fall, with summer residents draining the pipes and heading south. I have never cared for the end-of-summer migration, preferring the sounds of kids playing on the green, lights shining from the kitchens of 19th century houses and smells of dinner wafting out open windows. Our old villages have become livelier recently as some families, in response to COVID-19, have left their city apartments, relocating to less-populated towns with abundant open spaces, places where friends and family can safely roam the forests, the general store and the village greens.
Bird communities change every fall, virus or not. My backyard population, now influenced by supplemental sunflower seeds, has gone from the singing, foraging, nesting birds to a rowdy flock of woodpeckers, finches, siskins, blue jays, nuthatches, chickadees and titmice competing for a place at the feeder and seeds to cache away under the bark for later.
The dogs and I begin most days with a walk along the upper Ompompanoosuc, accompanied by the chirps of whatever bird species are moving through. Clean fast water and riparian vegetation — tall trees, low shrubs, fruits, seeds and nuts provide shelter and food for birds, weasels, rodents and carnivores. The soundtrack we hear varies throughout the year, with the ubiquitous robin, so common it is hardly noticed, starting things off in February. Song sparrows join in and are soon accompanied by black and yellow flautists, the bobolinks. Soon after, the river becomes a choral competition of warblers, sparrows, vireos, catbirds, orioles and doves, each one singing individually to attract a female and to define and defend territory. With songs so complex and interesting, it is a wonder we ever get home for breakfast.
Summer winds down and the songs change from sweet melodics to high-frequency rasping, with the cedar waxwings and kingbirds raising their young late in the season to coordinate with the ripening of berries and abundant airborne insects. Their songs resemble scraping metal, but their winged acrobatics from the treetops are amusing. Goldfinch also breed late in the summer when the thistle blooms. The gregarious little yellow birds are squeakers rather than singers but like all birds that are willing to hang out with people, they are loved.
By September, migrating birds begin to come through the valley after a busy summer up north in the boreal forest, where many of them nested among the krummholz and fed their young spruce budworms. By fall, song sparrows are singing an abbreviated version of their familiar song along with the chips of females. White throated sparrows too, will sing a weak version of “Poor Sam Peabody, Peabody” along with a very buzzy chipping.
Now that wood stoves are lit and house plants are crowded back onto windowsills, the river chorus has changed. Except for a few remaining flocks of yellow rump warblers, the neotropical migrants have gone south. The hayfield and river have become home to large, noisy flights of robins, blue jays, goldfinches, chickadees and crows. No more lilting songs of little birds claiming territory and hoping for a mate, fall is a time for the mighty flock, strength in numbers, food cached and food sources claimed. These guys are tough, and they are here to stay for the winter. I wonder how our families from the south will find it here, if they have caulked the cracks, closed the windows tightly and stacked enough firewood. I wonder if they, too, will stay the long, cold winter.
Micki Colbeck, of Strafford, is an artist, a conservation biologist and a member of the Strafford Conservation Commission. Write to her at mjcolbeck@gmail.com.