First of two parts
If there’s a singular song of spring, it’s the call of the Northern Cardinal.
That loud, distinctive whistle is often the earliest note of the morning in much of the country. When the full bird orchestra eventually joins in, the Cardinal still holds the first chair.
Ever since the virus chased us all into our homes, I’ve added a morning birding walk under the guise of exercise (a loophole where we live.) It’s an antidote to the uncertainty; the first arrivals of migration are showing up right on cue in eastern North Carolina, while the year-round birds are hard at work gathering food, building nests and pairing up.
The female cardinal with its mute plumage and bright beak.
Almost everywhere I walk, Northern Cardinals are there to serenade. Their repertoire is rich and familiar, including that flute-like “cheer-cheer” opening, their steady chirps, their staccato zip-zips that sound like something from a video game. It’s not too strong to call it incessant on some days.
First it zigged and zagged along the edge of the shore, lunging for prospects as it followed its own obstacle course though the water. Then, apparently unhappy with the results, it lifted off and headed to a new spot. That’s when the heron spotted something near the surface of the water.
About 4,000 Florida Scrub Jays remain in a handful of scattered Central Florida patches of elevated scrub land that sit on sandy soil, with low bushy growth and few trees. As development consumes what’s left of this habitat, state and county researchers are waging a campaign to keep the jays from dwindling further, to the point of moving whole families when their territories are threatened.
Two dozen Great Egrets stood clustered in a shallow pond as if in a ballet rehearsal. They moved along in groups of threes and fours in precise formation. With their long thin necks lining up one minute and crisscrossing the next, they seemed choreographed for elegance.
