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Royal Botanical Gardens Arboretum, Hamilton. ON. March 23, 2022.  There are many signs of spring, maybe too many. A look back over the last half dozen posts and it’s clear that I celebrate them all for a variety of reasons: Tundra Swans, Killdeer, Red-winged Blackbirds and Eastern Phoebes. Well, today I was reminded of another, a Northern Flicker.

I had decided to get out of the house on a mild day, to take a leg-stretching walk and see what a wet and windy night had blown in. It was a big day for American Robins, I think there must have been a migratory surge last night, they seemed to be everywhere. On the short and narrow grass boulevard of an unremarkable urban street, I noted about twenty male robins all standing to attention the way robins do and showing off their rich, chestnut breasts.

At the arboretum there were plenty of robins too: singing, calling and clucking to each other. But rising above their low-level clamour was the clear call of a Northern Flicker, just one. Flickers have quite a repertoire of calls, this was the almost defiant, stuttering KAY- KAY – KAY. It says “I’m here. Looking for friends. Anyone?”  It wasn’t the best photo-op, shooting up against a bright sky is rarely a good idea but I took a chance because this bird was almost my first flicker of spring.  Many more will follow, I usually count on there being lots of them by mid-April.

North Service Rd. Woods, Burlington ON. March 20 2022.  My birding worked as it’s supposed to today: I (or you could too) go birding, look, pay attention and something unexpected will usually pop up. Two specials today: A Snowy Owl this morning and an Eastern Phoebe this afternoon.  On this date, both would likely fall into the category of ‘unexpected-but-certainly-possible,’ so certainly worth dancing a little jig for.

The Snowy Owl took me by surprise, I was visiting a nearby marina where I had hoped to see early-returning Red-necked Grebes, (and did). But as I walked out to the end of the breakwater a dog-walker said, “Good thing you have your camera, there’s a white owl by the lighthouse – flying around” Right away I knew what he meant and ‘- flying around’! My heart started to beat a little faster. Not that I keep records very seriously but I hadn’t seen a Snowy Owl all winter and assumed that I probably wouldn’t. Late or not, in flight or not, a Snowy Owl is always a nice sighting and it must be said, a real privilege. Here it is – it didn’t fly – not for me anyway.

After lunch, I took advantage of this bright, if blustery, March day to follow up on a couple of possible sites where I nurse hopes that American Kestrels might decide to set up home this spring. The population of American Kestrels is on a steep decline and I really hope to find a breeding pair somewhere in my study area for the Ontario Breeding Bird Atlas. There were no kestrels at either site but there’s plenty of time, it’s still early.

Despite rather muddy trails I made a loop around a nice old woodland, not expecting much in the way of birds but enjoying the still sleeping forest floor and the reaching twigginess of Sugar Maples, White Oaks, Shag–bark Hickories and Hop–hornbeams. And then quite unexpectedly this Eastern Phoebe did what phoebes do best, fly off and watch me from a safe distance.

The appearance of the first Eastern Phoebe is always notable and always a bit of a surprise. They are a flycatcher and you wouldn’t think there are any flies around to catch. I bless them for their optimism and also because they have a way of sitting still long enough and close enough that I often manage to get a decent photograph.

The Snowy Owl and the Eastern Phoebe were sightings of quite different times and places, but they were equally My Birds of the Day. For similar reasons; one taking winter back north to where it belongs, the other dragging spring along behind it.

Burlington ON. March 18 2022.  A pair of Mourning Doves has built what passes for a nest just outside my study window, it’s all rather enchanting. Doves are emblematic of peace of course and Mourning Doves sing (or coo if you prefer) quite musically and soothingly but they do raise questions in my mind about avian intelligence.

My questioning arises from the observation that a pair of Mourning Doves has nested within a meter or so of the very same spot every March for the last half-dozen years; and faithfully, every March for the last half-dozen years, the nest has been terminally raided by squirrels. I have no proof but I believe the doves just shrug, then go and try again somewhere else.  Somehow, we appear to maintain a steady population of Mourning Doves.

Can this be the same ill-fated couple? Or has one or other of them been replaced? And if so which one?  The male, the female,  – or maybe both? Somehow this hopeless and fated nest site has become a March ritual.

I think doves and pigeons are more generally seen as dopey rather than intelligent, as indolent creatures of underpasses and window ledges. But then, what about the many extraordinary stories of homing or racing pigeons who unerringly find their way home from hundreds of miles away. This astonishing ability has spurred much research into innate navigation in all sorts of vertebrates. Obviously, a different kind of intelligence.

But I can’t let this go without noting that Mourning Doves have been around for a very long time. I couldn’t find anything on their abundance before the arrival of Europeans but I think it’s a pretty safe bet that Mourning Doves have been around for several millions of years. The point is that, despite the apparent short-sightedness of a few individuals, the species still survives – indeed thrives.

Haldimand County, ON. March 14 2022.  In late January I wrote about Snow Buntings and the snow-blown field where we find them. We went back there today, knowing the Snow Buntings had probably left for their northern homes, but hoping to spot a reported group of Lapland Longspurs – but didn’t. The fields and scattered overgrown corners made for quite good birding nevertheless.

Bird of the Day, among a field of pretty serious contenders, was a young Northern Harrier. We spotted it first coming our way to our left, then it swept low across the road and carried on away over the brown, late-winter field. There is rarely time to get photos of sudden sightings like this but it all worked out and, against all odds, I got this one above.

And that’s one of the things about Northern Harriers: we usually see them moving fast and low, far away over open fields, hunting for rodent prey. I have taken countless hopeless photos of distant harriers, although when I looked through my photo archives I was pleasantly surprised by a few.

This male was photographed by me in midwinter 2011, he was understandably concerned about holding on to his meal despite my unnerving closeness.  I am certain it is a male because of the predominance of the beautiful slate blue on its back and wings, females are generally brown, but I’m a bit puzzled about his age. That mottled brown on his back suggests that it may be a youngish male but the bold lemon-yellow eye colour says adult. Well, maybe it doesn’t matter all that much.

And what about those serious contenders? We started paying close attention when we spotted a Rough-legged Hawk perched on the top of a large hedgerow tree. Like harriers they always seem to be just too far away for a satisfying study. But we were quickly distracted by a small group of Eastern Bluebirds. They are always endearing creatures and the males among this group seemed vividly blue, perhaps it’s the approach of spring. It is easy to see how they, like the European Robin, became symbolic of happy days in less complex times, and before the encroachment of urban sprawl.

Three American Kestrels, two of them an obviously mated pair, were special. For some reason (and there are plenty of candidate reasons) the American Kestrel population seems to be in a steep decline in this part of the world while their Merlin cousins are increasing in number. Across the Americas, everywhere from Patagonia to Alaska, kestrel populations seem to be secure.

Royal Botanical Gardens. Hendrie Valley, Burlington. ON. March 6, 2022.  This tipping point, the moment when the key turns in winter’s padlock, prompts a mini-surge of returning birds. They confirm that warmer days are on their way, it may be a bit stop and go, but it’s going to happen.

Today the sun shone like it meant it and temperatures spiked far above anything we’ve seen for three months, so I went birding to one of my favourite valleys.  Hardly was I out of my car when I heard a Song Sparrow singing – that’s a good sign.  It might have been in the valley all winter and managed to scrape by, but song is a sign of it having made it and it might have been my Bird of the Day except that…..

Down on the flood-plain, still dotted with pans of thick ice, a few male Red–winged Blackbirds were around, new arrivals, some of them taking a moment to perch on a cattail head and try out a bit of territorial song. I don’t think they were very committed though, they are very much the advance guard. In a week or two, thousands more will arrive and then staking out home turf will be a serious matter. But these few were definitely tipping point birds.

At a bend in the river, a handful of Hooded Mergansers were diving for fish, at least I assume fish but the waters were so silty-thick and murky with all the meltwater that I don’t know how they could possibly see to catch them. But they were surfacing with something edible, so fish – presumably? Alongside the mergansers was a sole male Wood Duck. He was a tipping point bird, like the Song Sparrow and Red-wings.

The valley bottom looks exhausted, flattened by the repeated battering by snow-turned-to-ice and from ice-dam flooding. Our familiar trails were either still thickly layered with ice from foot traffic compacting snow or, if clear of ice, were slippery and muddy. I questioned my wisdom in going there in the first place.

My Bird of the Day came around lunchtime. Back home, I had taken a moment to tidy a few of the uglier winter eyesores in my back yard when I heard a Killdeer calling overhead. The first Killdeer is always a heard-Killdeer, it’s as if they leave a contrail of di-deeee calls in their wake. They leave Ontario for the winter, today’s may have spent the last four months just a few latitude degrees south of us, somewhere where food can be reliably found along shorelines or open fields. I didn’t see it –  and it doesn’t matter, I was glad to hear it back.