fog into sunshine into fog

This morning's foggy walk took me out onto Weesuck Avenue where I ran into Mike Higgiston, one of our small group of East Quogue birders. Just as we were commiserating about the lack of even some of the most common birds, lo and behold, the first Common Yellowthroat of the year finally appeared -- the first, by sound at least, on these premises. Were the local Yellowthroats decimated by Sandy? Or is it the damage to their bushy habitat that is responsible for the scarcity of what should be a common species?

The other birds of the morning were Pine Warbler, Great Crested Flycatcher, White-breasted Nuthatch and Northern Flicker, all active and calling between our property and the road. The tide was a bit too high for the various sandpipers and herons that like to frequent our tidal pond -- which is partly visible from the foot of Weesuck Avenue -- but at one point, a strange call from from overhead caught my attention; there were two good-sized terns in the fog but the call, something like that of a Common Tern but more even and higher in pitch, did not sound familiar. What tern -- not a Least Tern -- has a smoother, higher-pitched call than a Common? An Arctic Tern, perhaps? Perhaps. I don't get to hear the flight call of an Arctic Tern very often. This may have been the moment but, alas, I'll never know for sure.

Not satisfied with this haul, I took off for Hunters Garden, hoping against hope for another warbler wave like the one there the other day. No such luck but I did find a Scarlet Tanager bathing in a mud puddle (you don't see Scarlet Tanagers at ground level very often), heard the unmistakeable call of a Yellow-billed Cuckoo (but couldn't find it high in the dense canopy), and closely observed the silent presence of a far-from-unmistakeable flycatcher, flycatching in the mid-level of an open, wet forest glade.  It was flicking its tail vigorously which pretty much ruled out the most obvious choice; it was not an Eastern Wood-Pewee. Even though this was a brownish bird with no visible eyering, it was, in fact, one of those interesting Empidonax flycatcher of the kind that used to be called Traill's Flycatcher, now separated out into Willow and Alder. My guess is that it was an Alder based on the following: the habitat (inside the woods, not in an open shrubby area), a rather darkish head (a little bit Phoebe-like), and the fact that a migratory bird (which this almost certainly was) is far likelier to be an Alder because most of the Alders breed north of us while the Willow, which is a local breeder, is more of a southern species close to its northern limit on Long Island.

Back at the house, the fog gave way to summer sunshine and there was a sun-bathing Jay and a sun-bathing Crow, both catching some rays out on open sandy areas outside the porch windows. Both birds crouched low to the ground, spread their wings and fluffed their feathers in an odd sort of disarray with heads up, open beaks, and staring eyes. This gave the birds a look of ecstasy although they were probably only maintaining a measure of alertness for any sign of danger. Later in the day, I did a little sunning myself, sitting on the front deck, when I became aware that there was something strange about the deep blue calm of the bay. It took me a moment to realize what it was: I couldn't see the other side. Not Pine Neck which was in clear sunshine but Dune Road, its Great Dunes and its not-so-great MacMansions all equally swallowed up in the deep layer of sea fog covering the barrier beach. We will, I suspect, see that fog back across the bay in the not too distant future (tomorrow morning perhaps).

Eric Salzman