For the past 14 years, I have found September to be one of the most underrepresented months in my photography catalog. September marks the beginning of a new school year and the end of my freedom to follow my photographic nose, so to speak.
Year after year, as the days get shorter, I find myself spending more time thinking about the natural world than experiencing it. As I scan the pages of my bird-sightings journal, I see a trend that is fairly predictable. The number of bird species seen drops precipitously from August to September.
This year, the total number of species seen in my yard was a mind-blowing 50 (a new personal record) in the month of August, while the number for September currently sits at 35 (also a new record).
The reason for the drop in species is rather obvious. Our summertime friends are starting to leave us. Conditions in the north are about to turn unpleasant, and their only solution is to avoid the unpleasantness by moving south.
I recall a particularly special night spent in a field in Ashfield many years ago when I sat under the moon with a pair of binoculars and was actually able to see and hear birds migrating above my head. Some may consider such an experience insignificant, yet it has left an indelible mark in my mind.
The effects of this migration are not always immediately obvious to the casual observer, because a mere species count is insufficient to tell the whole story. I have dedicated tremendous amounts of time establishing “personal” relationships with the birds that come to my feeders. I have committed myself to the idea of sitting in the same place at the same time day after day in an effort to get to know these birds, and it has worked.
Birds like chickadees, nuthatches and woodpeckers are extremely easy to identify on this sort of personal level, whereas goldfinches, house finches and other more gregarious species are virtually impossible to identify “personally.” Still, even the flocking birds get to know me and become quite tolerant of my presence. This general attitude makes a “stranger” stand out like a sore thumb.
On more than one occasion, I’ve been certain that a “new” chickadee has arrived based on its behavior alone. The regulars are very casual about approaching me and will go about their business as if I’m not actually there. Their comfort does not mean that I’m literally not there, however, for if I bring a novel object out onto my table, these chickadees will often take great interest in it.
At one point this summer, I had a chickadee land on the table within arm’s reach to investigate a large dictionary it hadn’t seen before.
Hummingbirds, believe it or not, are quite similar in their abilities to form relationships. Several years ago, there was one particular adult male that would comfortably sit on a perch that was no more than 10 feet away from me. His youngsters were particularly “friendly” and on more than one occasion, I was used as an obstacle in a barnstorming race. Young hummingbirds seem to take great delight in the “close pass,” and it is not uncommon for me to feel the slight brush of a high-speed hummingbird zipping past my head.
As soon as September arrives, however, things clearly start to change. There are still hummingbirds that come to my feeders, but they are very clearly “strangers.” Their ease in my presence is replaced with what can palpably be described as unfamiliarity with the culture of my feeders. They can easily spot the feeder, but they are noticeably unsure about my role in the situation. Since they are hummingbirds they are at relative ease (having no real fear of attack from anything), but they clearly don’t “know” me.
My record species count for May is 61, while my record for January is 29. This would suggest that about half of the birds fly south, but when you realize that some of the species seen in January are themselves migratory visitors from the north that only appear during the winter months, you start to see just how stupendous the situation really is. Most of the species in my yard are just visitors, while only a handful are permanent residents.
Yet, even in this melancholy season of farewells, there is one special feature that could put a smile on anyone’s face. Even as the killdeer, hummingbirds and swallows are making a final pass over the northern landscape, the goldfinches are introducing their new fledglings to the world. The bright, excited and frantic calls of these wonderful little birds add a wonderful burst of energy to the avian landscape.
I hope you are able to get outside and spend a little quiet time soaking up the beauty of the world we live in. It won’t be long now before even the exuberance of young goldfinches is somewhat stifled by the much more dramatic change in the weather that October can bring. Get outside, see the sights, smell the smells and while you’re at it, prepare a good viewing area for the coming winter.
Bill Danielson has worked for the National Park Service, the US Forest Service and the Massachusetts State Parks. He has been a professional writer and nature photographer for 19 years, and he also teaches high school biology and physics. For more information, go to www.speakingofnature.com or Speaking of Nature on Facebook.