morning, evening & morning

Yesterday was a morning and evening affair. In the morning, I kicked up a Black-crowned Night Heron from the edge of the open water in the middle of the marsh. It flew  up to the head of the marsh and perched on some seaside wrack accumulated there. It was obviously watching me because as soon as I left the marsh, it flew back up and dropped in to the very same spot from which I had so rudely evicted it. Must be some night-heron goodies in that spot. There are two Eastern Kingbirds hanging around at the edge of the marsh and they are definitely interested in one another. They were both calling and making those slow, heads-up, breast-up, fluttering flights that surely mean courtship. 

Last night, I visited the East Quogue Chuck-will's-widow spot just north of Old Country Road and west of Lewis Road. This has been the local place to find these birds for a number of years now and, in past years, I have even been able to watch them doing courtship and display; there can be little doubt that they have bred here regularly over the years. Last night I was there at about 8:15. The male began singing some time between 8:15 and 8:30 -- there was still plenty of light -- just beside one of the dirt roads in the area. He kept it up -- with just brief pauses and an occasional movement from one singing post to another. He was still at it at 9 pm when I gave up. In spite of his closeness and some tendency to move around, I was able to get just a brief glimpse. He flies low in the denser, darker part of the forest and his flight is, like that of an owl, quite soundless.

All our local birds were singing this morning -- including Yellow Warbler, Common Yellowthroat, Pine Warbler, Great Crested Flycatcher, Eastern Kingbird, Black-capped Chickadee, Tufted Titmouse and Carolina Wren. But there was another, less familiar sound: a kind of soft, throaty song that was not very melodious but somehow kept its formal status as a real song. It was coming from the low trees and bushes at the edge of the marsh but I could not get a glimpse of the bird even as I followed it up to the head of the marsh and then across to the other side. A little later, I heard a clearer version of the same song coming from high trees at the bend of the old right of way. It was, without much doubt, a Warbling Vireo, a once common village bird on Eastern Long Island that disappeared and is now making a comeback. 

Eric Salzman