Despite a remarkable period of warm weather last week, the time is coming when I will once again have to say “farewell” to a wonderful denizen of the thickets around my yard — the song sparrow (Melospiza melodia). This small, nondescript bird skulks in the shadows and seems to almost haunt my yard even in the springtime. It is only this bird’s voice that vibrantly “shows itself” — the one aspect of this pathologically secretive bird that is regularly detectable.
At this time of year, the song sparrow’s song has gone silent and only the contact calls are still audible. I have characterized these noises as “barks,” but you may have come up with your own way of thinking about them. Upon hearing this call you can occasionally spot the bird perched in the brush, but more often than not, you see the tail-end of the bird as it flies away from you.
I managed to hear this little barking noise on Oct. 16, but I never actually saw the bird. Making matters worse is the fact that the white-throated sparrows have arrived, almost like the new wave of guards arriving in a secretive changing-of-the-guards ceremony.
I had to search my files for photos of autumn song sparrows, and I eventually found these gems in a folder from 2010.
I was instantly taken back to that crisp autumn morning at sunrise. I had risen early, put on a heavy flannel shirt and headed out to take a walk to a local beaver pond. With camera in hand, I kept my eyes open for any movement; something that would be easy to detect on such a calm morning.
I reached the southern edge of the pond without incident. There was a small trail that hugged the western edge, so I quietly stepped out of the woods and into the light. There had been rain the previous afternoon, which meant that all of the leaves were damp and quiet. I could move almost silently. About halfway around the pond, I stopped to take photos of mist rising off the water that was being backlit by the sun and cut with the shadows of nearby trees.
When I turned to continue up the trail, I happened to catch a movement out of the corner of my eye. It was a bird and, by the particular flitting pattern of its flight, I identified it as a song sparrow. Typical! You see it just long enough to know what it is. I took a few more steps and then stopped dead in my tracks. Ahead, to my right, sat the sparrow.
This was rare. The bird had flown, but not more than 20 feet, or so. I couldn’t see it when it landed, but apparently the bird was so comfortable that it didn’t want to abandon a particularly nice perch in the sun. So, with the greatest of care, I gently raised my camera and watched.
The sparrow was sitting at the top of an arching multi-flora rose stem. It was in a little recessed pocket that faced east and was in direct sunlight from the rising sun. The bird looked very comfy and started the process of preening its feathers. At this range, the click of the shutter sometimes gets the attention of birds, but this bird was in the zone; seemingly oblivious to sights and sounds around itself. At one point, it paused for the perfect profile shot, then rewarded me further by executing a long, drawn-out scratch. With the sun to my back, my camera was firing like a machine gun, and one of the frames was perfect.
Then, as if a trance had been lifted from its tiny mind, the bird seemed to snap back to reality. It gave me a good, long look and an expression that I can only describe as, “whoa!” passed over its demeanor. Then, it disappeared into the brush.
Those are the kinds of moments that have convinced me that the photo gods are real. Every now and then, they extend their divine hands to coax birds into some wondrous cooperative mood. Only the worthy are able to take advantage of it.
The Massachusetts Audubon Society checklist of the birds of Massachusetts designates song sparrows as “permanent residents.” In my personal experience, however, this really depends on exactly where you are. Can song sparrows be found in the state during the winter? Absolutely. Can they be found at your house? Not so absolutely.
In my yard, the song sparrows seem to vanish at the end of October, not to reappear again until sometime in March or April. Where they go is hard to figure. Some may move south, but there are other sparrows that may simply move to lower altitudes. I know there are song sparrows along the coastal areas, and there may also be a few near the Connecticut River. The dearth of winter song sparrow photos in my collection, however, suggests that wherever they are, I am not.
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. Visit www.speakingofnature.com for more information, or go to Speaking of Nature on Facebook.