30 June 2023 (smog clearing)
Kristen Lindquist
smog clearing
a young peregrine begins
to preen
Book of Days
BOOK OF DAYS: A POET AND NATURALIST TRIES TO FIND POETRY IN EVERY DAY
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Filtering by Tag: peregrine falcon
5 June 2022 (granite)
Kristen Lindquist
sunlit granite
a falcon disappears
into the cliff face
9 October 2021 (falcon)
Kristen Lindquist
hunting falcon
a red-headed woodpecker
loses its head
October 31: Halloween
Kristen Lindquist
Halloween morning--
pigeons huddle on a roof
as falcon flies past.
pigeons huddle on a roof
as falcon flies past.
November 5: Downtown falcon
Kristen Lindquist
After being alerted at least three times by a fellow Camden birder of various sightings of a peregrine falcon that regularly perches atop the steeple of the Baptist church, I finally saw it for myself.
This morning before 8:00 I found myself standing outside the Camden Opera House as a volunteer for a conference. Looking across the Village Green toward the church, as a small flock of pigeons circled overhead, it occurred to me that now would be the perfect time for a falcon to show up. So I kept one eye on the sky while carrying out my volunteer duties. The church clock rang eight. A silhouette of a largish bird perched atop the bank caught my eye, but no, it was a (very vocal) crow. More people passed, conference attendees, dog walkers. But I kept watching, I had faith.
And then, there it was. A pair of crows sounded the alarm as a large falcon flew overhead, its profile distinct against the blue morning sky. From its size, I'm thinking she was a female. She made a few passes. I excitedly pointed her out to a pair of random conference participants. She dipped behind the church and circled the steeple. I hoped she would perch on the steeple, but not this morning. She was there and then gone, leaving me standing there on the sidewalk with a foolish grin on my face for several minutes.
Peregrine fly-by
right here, downtown, this morning--
I finally saw it!
September 26: Peregrines at Play
Kristen Lindquist
A chilly north wind is blowing through the island right now, making birding a bit harsh. For some reason, though, lots of goldfinches are flying around. And falcons. While typing this on the lawn of the Yew, half a dozen merlins have zipped past and two have landed at the tip of a spruce tree about 100 yards away from our little cocktail hour gathering. We've seen a few kestrels, as well. But the most fun was watching two peregrines soaring over Manana Island. They were joined at one point by as many as four ravens, which they chased without serious intent. A flock of goldfinches flew across the harbor at one point, were chased by a peregrine, and quickly flew back to safety. The speed at which the world's fastest animal plays is breathtaking; we watched transfixed for almost half an hour. The birds would soar, barely moving a feather, and then suddenly transfix on something and go after it, just for fun. Even after we stopped watching with full focus and walked up to the lighthouse, every now and then we'd look out to Manana and see one falcon still dipping and diving over the island horizon.
Despite the cold wind
we watch them for a long time,
free-wheeling falcons.
Despite the cold wind
we watch them for a long time,
free-wheeling falcons.
September 19: Merlin
Kristen Lindquist
In the King Arthur stories, Merlin the magician is the one who makes things happen. He sets the story in motion. In Weskeag Marsh, the merlin also sets things in motion--namely other birds, harassing them and generally creating chaos wherever it flies. It was quiet when I arrived at the marsh this morning around high tide, with just a handful of sandpipers shifting in the pannes and a line-up of snowy egrets in the distance. But friends I met there had earlier watched a peregrine falcon carry off a yellowlegs--a rather large sandpiper--and had also seen a merlin, a smaller falcon, zip through.
So when I set out onto the flooded, mucky path winding through the marsh grass between the pannes and canals, I kept an eye out. Fairly quickly I spotted the peregrine on a big dead tree that seems to be the favorite perch of peregrines, perhaps resting after digesting its big meal. Downriver a kingfisher perched on the right side of a duck blind, an array of snowy egrets in the water nearby. As I focused on my footing, trying to get further out into the marsh in hopes of seeing more birds, I heard the kingfisher's rattling call. Looking up, I noticed that the bird perched on the right side of the duck blind was now a small brown falcon. The kingfisher was now perched on the left side of the blind. The merlin must have decided it wanted that side and chased off the kingfisher, which held its ground enough to at least remain on the blind. They stayed in that detente arrangement for several minutes as I made my way further into the marsh.
Later I happened to notice that the kingfisher had left the blind for a fence post. A few posts away sat the merlin. I wondered if it had moved over there just to bug the kingfisher. Merlins are like that. For a bird of prey, it's small, about the size of a kingfisher, actually, but fierce beyond its size. A merlin will make a pass at just about anything--a gull, an eagle, a peregrine. It knows no fear, and its speed and size make it a difficult target for retaliation. At one point the peregrine left the snag and gave chase to something in the marsh, and the merlin somehow got involved. It was difficult to say which bird was chasing which, but the peregrine came up with nothing and the merlin went back to a fence post.
It remained there until I had left the marsh. Before I got in my car, I scanned one more time. And there was the merlin, darting over the marsh. A couple of crows noticed, as well, and loudly took up chase. The birds disappeared into the pines bordering the marsh. When they emerged, it looked like the merlin had turned the tables and was chasing the crows. They went around and around in the trees until the feisty merlin flew off to harass something else.
Merlin chasing crows
never doubts himself. For him
size doesn't matter.
Interested in learning a little more about merlins? Check out this recent post on merlins (with beautiful accompanying photos) by my birder friend Bryan Pfeiffer, who is currently out on Monhegan.
So when I set out onto the flooded, mucky path winding through the marsh grass between the pannes and canals, I kept an eye out. Fairly quickly I spotted the peregrine on a big dead tree that seems to be the favorite perch of peregrines, perhaps resting after digesting its big meal. Downriver a kingfisher perched on the right side of a duck blind, an array of snowy egrets in the water nearby. As I focused on my footing, trying to get further out into the marsh in hopes of seeing more birds, I heard the kingfisher's rattling call. Looking up, I noticed that the bird perched on the right side of the duck blind was now a small brown falcon. The kingfisher was now perched on the left side of the blind. The merlin must have decided it wanted that side and chased off the kingfisher, which held its ground enough to at least remain on the blind. They stayed in that detente arrangement for several minutes as I made my way further into the marsh.
Later I happened to notice that the kingfisher had left the blind for a fence post. A few posts away sat the merlin. I wondered if it had moved over there just to bug the kingfisher. Merlins are like that. For a bird of prey, it's small, about the size of a kingfisher, actually, but fierce beyond its size. A merlin will make a pass at just about anything--a gull, an eagle, a peregrine. It knows no fear, and its speed and size make it a difficult target for retaliation. At one point the peregrine left the snag and gave chase to something in the marsh, and the merlin somehow got involved. It was difficult to say which bird was chasing which, but the peregrine came up with nothing and the merlin went back to a fence post.
It remained there until I had left the marsh. Before I got in my car, I scanned one more time. And there was the merlin, darting over the marsh. A couple of crows noticed, as well, and loudly took up chase. The birds disappeared into the pines bordering the marsh. When they emerged, it looked like the merlin had turned the tables and was chasing the crows. They went around and around in the trees until the feisty merlin flew off to harass something else.
Merlin chasing crows
never doubts himself. For him
size doesn't matter.
Interested in learning a little more about merlins? Check out this recent post on merlins (with beautiful accompanying photos) by my birder friend Bryan Pfeiffer, who is currently out on Monhegan.
August 8: Morning on the Marsh
Kristen Lindquist
Starting in early August each summer I try to make regular visits to Weskeag Marsh, a significant salt marsh in South Thomaston, to observe the shorebirds on their migration. Believe it or not, this southward movement is already underway.
Weskeag is an experience for the senses. On this still, sultry morning, the salt pannes were low, with fragrant marsh mud exposed around the near-dry pools. Mosquitoes swarmed each time I paused, but not enough to distract me. Cicadas whined in the trees, and crickets chirped in the grass. The marsh is a dynamic place always, thanks to the cycles of tides and the movement of birds. Although relatively quiet today bird-wise, it never disappoints. In the pannes closest to the parking lot, several killdeer milled in the reeds, occasionally calling with strident voices. Further out, tiny fish called mummichugs churned in the deeper channels cut through the mud. I was thankful for my knee-high rubber boots after stepping off the path at one point and sinking into about six inches of the mucky black silt. Bird tracks were etched onto the drying surface of the pannes, ranging from what looked like turkey tracks to webbed duck tracks to the tracks of little sandpipers almost too light to make an impression.
In the wide pannes, yellowlegs moved through the shallow water, feeding. Their three-note "too too too" call never fails to stir my heart a little, as it evokes this special place so well. These larger sandpipers are absent from the marsh only a few months a year, as they pass through heading north to their Arctic breeding grounds in early spring through late June, and can be seen on their journey back south in late July through November.
Swarming around the feet of the yellowlegs were several dozen least sandpipers--adults on their return trip and young birds on their first migration. You can tell them apart because the adult's feathers are worn, making the bird look faded next to the "freshly minted copper penny" plumage of this summer's youngster. These tiny birds have a journey still ahead of them, which accounts for their near ceaseless feeding as they fatten up for the long haul. In the back of the marsh a few dozen shining white snowy egrets and a handful of great blue herons stood amid the higher marsh grass. Every now and then one would rise up and fly to a new spot, reminding me that these beauties were tucked away back there.
As I paused with my spotting scope to check out some sandpipers, I heard something crashing in the woods beyond. I looked up from the scope, and to my surprise three deer walked out into the marsh--two sleek does in their warm brown summer coats and one spotted fawn. I tried to be still as they picked their way along the edge of the marsh and looked up repeatedly. Even the fawn had already learned to be on heightened alert. One doe calmly turned and went back into the trees, but the other doe with fawn moved along until I lost sight of them in the tall cattails. Beautiful animals. May they remain wary and survive.
Just for being there
I was blessed with this: three deer,
unafraid, and birds.
Weskeag is an experience for the senses. On this still, sultry morning, the salt pannes were low, with fragrant marsh mud exposed around the near-dry pools. Mosquitoes swarmed each time I paused, but not enough to distract me. Cicadas whined in the trees, and crickets chirped in the grass. The marsh is a dynamic place always, thanks to the cycles of tides and the movement of birds. Although relatively quiet today bird-wise, it never disappoints. In the pannes closest to the parking lot, several killdeer milled in the reeds, occasionally calling with strident voices. Further out, tiny fish called mummichugs churned in the deeper channels cut through the mud. I was thankful for my knee-high rubber boots after stepping off the path at one point and sinking into about six inches of the mucky black silt. Bird tracks were etched onto the drying surface of the pannes, ranging from what looked like turkey tracks to webbed duck tracks to the tracks of little sandpipers almost too light to make an impression.
In the wide pannes, yellowlegs moved through the shallow water, feeding. Their three-note "too too too" call never fails to stir my heart a little, as it evokes this special place so well. These larger sandpipers are absent from the marsh only a few months a year, as they pass through heading north to their Arctic breeding grounds in early spring through late June, and can be seen on their journey back south in late July through November.
Swarming around the feet of the yellowlegs were several dozen least sandpipers--adults on their return trip and young birds on their first migration. You can tell them apart because the adult's feathers are worn, making the bird look faded next to the "freshly minted copper penny" plumage of this summer's youngster. These tiny birds have a journey still ahead of them, which accounts for their near ceaseless feeding as they fatten up for the long haul. In the back of the marsh a few dozen shining white snowy egrets and a handful of great blue herons stood amid the higher marsh grass. Every now and then one would rise up and fly to a new spot, reminding me that these beauties were tucked away back there.
As I paused with my spotting scope to check out some sandpipers, I heard something crashing in the woods beyond. I looked up from the scope, and to my surprise three deer walked out into the marsh--two sleek does in their warm brown summer coats and one spotted fawn. I tried to be still as they picked their way along the edge of the marsh and looked up repeatedly. Even the fawn had already learned to be on heightened alert. One doe calmly turned and went back into the trees, but the other doe with fawn moved along until I lost sight of them in the tall cattails. Beautiful animals. May they remain wary and survive.
Just for being there
I was blessed with this: three deer,
unafraid, and birds.
August 1: Predators
Kristen Lindquist
Today is the pagan holiday of Lughnasa or Lammas, the first harvest holiday of the season. I celebrated this perfect summer day on the Elizabeth Ann, watching seabirds in Muscongus Bay under blue skies and on calm seas for Friends of Maine Seabird Islands' fourth annual seabird adventure. We cruised out to Eastern Egg Rock with about 120 people on board, most of whom hoped to see puffins. And puffins we saw, though not in great numbers. Puffin Project researchers on the island counted record 109 pairs this summer, but only a handful of the colorful little birds were hanging around offshore today. What we did see: black guillemots, laughing gulls galore (1,500 pairs of those on the island!) making a racket along with the clouds of terns (common, Arctic, and endangered roseate all nest on the island), cormorants, eiders, a big cluster of ruddy turnstones, a couple of Wilson's storm-petrels dancing on the waves, a few gannets in the distance, some "peep" sandpipers, several great black-backed and herring gulls, osprey, bald eagle, harbor seals, and harbor porpoises.
And a peregrine falcon, which strafed the island, flushing every bird into the air in a screeching, swirling mass. It stooped, the fastest bird on earth, and when it rose into the air again we could clearly see it held a tern in its talons. The falcon flew off trailing an angry mob of terns dogging it like silvery wasps, but it did not relinquish its prey. Early harvest.
The cruise began to feel like a Discovery Channel nature show when around the next bend we came upon a great black-backed gull attacking a young laughing gull headfirst. While we watched in awe, the gull killed this bird almost half its own size and dragged it off to tear apart for a meal. Another early harvest. As Sue Schubel from Maine Audubon reminded us over the boat's speakers, "It's not being mean, it's just eating dinner." I've never seen anything like it. But apparently the birds nearby had, as they barely even noticed the commotion just a few feet away.
As we circled the island several times we also were able to observe many guillemots catching rock eels the same vivid red-orange as their feet. Terns and puffins flew in to young with beaks full of fish. A riffle on the water chased by a gull revealed where a school of fish was driven to the surface by larger fish. And just before we turned away to head back to Port Clyde, a peregrine scared up the birds once more...
A lot of harvesting going on, the bounty of the sea made visible by this island teeming with healthy bird life. And a joyful day overall, which we celebrated by enjoying our own harvest from the sea at Cod's End in Tenants Harbor on the way home.
Not gull's prey this time,
cormorants look away, calm,
dreaming of herring.
And a peregrine falcon, which strafed the island, flushing every bird into the air in a screeching, swirling mass. It stooped, the fastest bird on earth, and when it rose into the air again we could clearly see it held a tern in its talons. The falcon flew off trailing an angry mob of terns dogging it like silvery wasps, but it did not relinquish its prey. Early harvest.
The cruise began to feel like a Discovery Channel nature show when around the next bend we came upon a great black-backed gull attacking a young laughing gull headfirst. While we watched in awe, the gull killed this bird almost half its own size and dragged it off to tear apart for a meal. Another early harvest. As Sue Schubel from Maine Audubon reminded us over the boat's speakers, "It's not being mean, it's just eating dinner." I've never seen anything like it. But apparently the birds nearby had, as they barely even noticed the commotion just a few feet away.
As we circled the island several times we also were able to observe many guillemots catching rock eels the same vivid red-orange as their feet. Terns and puffins flew in to young with beaks full of fish. A riffle on the water chased by a gull revealed where a school of fish was driven to the surface by larger fish. And just before we turned away to head back to Port Clyde, a peregrine scared up the birds once more...
A lot of harvesting going on, the bounty of the sea made visible by this island teeming with healthy bird life. And a joyful day overall, which we celebrated by enjoying our own harvest from the sea at Cod's End in Tenants Harbor on the way home.
Not gull's prey this time,
cormorants look away, calm,
dreaming of herring.