The Kellogg Columns

Everyone measures time by the watch and the calendar, but for some the rhythm of nature is still almost as important a measure. The earth and sky itself has the great cycle of the seasons, from which humans are partly distanced, but which most animals still live by exclusively.

About this time of year, when the days are longer and the sun higher, the birds begin to respond. The male glands swell and produce the hormones that prompt him to song and other displays. Most vocal lately has been the permanent residents, who are already on their nesting grounds, such as the cardinal, the nuthatch, the titmouse, and the chickadee. I wait eagerly for the moment of spring's first arrival, which for me is measured by the first day I hear the song of the red-winged blackbird. That happened yesterday, February 15.

Most years it happens in mid-February around St. Valentine's day. A little research into this holiday reveals that birds are the emblem for this celebration. It was the day when the birds came together to choose mates for the fast-approaching breeding season. Like most of our notions about romantic love, the holiday has its origin in medieval times, about 700 years ago.

Going back even further, there was a pagan festival in ancient Rome in the middle of February, which was a fertility rite. The medieval church appropriated this date and attributed it to a legendary Christian martyr, who was given the name Valentine. For most of the common folk the festival and love itself retained its raw earthy flavor, but for the nobility of that time love became courtly, a more spiritual adoration of "the noble lady."

Besides the advent of song, birds begin to move. The red-winged blackbird has spent the winter just a little to our south, where snow does not cover the ground so thoroughly. The first scouts feel the urge and head north, finding the marsh or wet meadow where last year's nesting took place and declaring their renewed ownership for the coming spring. The females are not here yet, but the song is for their benefit. When that song is heard, it is "first spring." The redwing also spreads his wings and displays the bright red epaulets that give him his name. For ducks such display is more important than the song.

The flocks of goldeneye ducks that can be found on the Connecticut River begin to chase each other and females over the waters, paddling furiously. The male stretches his head forward, then up into the sky, then back so far the bill touches the tail and points into the sky behind him. Finally he jerks the head forward, emitting a harsh raspy cry, and spurts ahead to show off his bright orange feet.

There are other species that ride those warming winds from the southwest in February, and you should look for them now. Already the graceful black sails of the turkey vulture are furled above our trees as this bird glides in search of the rich carrion first created by the snowpack, then revealed as it melts. Notice the wings, held with tips higher than the body as the bird teeters a bit on its perpetual glide, yet never faltering.

Several people have told me they have seen robins, but these birds are not yet moving north. It is just a flock that has been here all along, but is now leaving the fruiting trees and bushes in the wild where it gets its winter food, for the bare patches of softening ground in our yards where worms and fallen berries might be found.

Finally, the bluebird will be heard or seen. Their sweet but gentle calls will fall from a seeming empty sky, but if you look up, you can see them fly high overhead. A few of them stay here all winter, eating the same fruits as the robin, but their numbers are now swelled by birds from the south. Unlike the robin they pair off quickly and look for that nesting cavity during first spring. So celebrate Valentine's Day by putting up that nest box in your yard.

Everyone knows and loves the penguin, a denizen of southern seas. Most of the 16 species of penguins nest on or close to Antarctica, but all spend almost all their time at sea, where they are so invisible that we know very little about their life there.

Only those who are addicted to looking for and at birds know that there is another group of seabirds that fill the same ecological niche in the northern hemisphere. They are called auks or alcids. The most famous auk is the one that was most like the penguin and is now gone, the great auk. That this flightless bird is extinct due to human depredations is an important lesson. We profess to admire penguins so much, but these highly specialized birds are all declining and some are threatened, strictly because of human activities.

There are 22 species of alcids left, however, and they are as fascinating and mysterious as the penguin. They also spend most of their time well out to sea, coming to land only to breed, usually in dense colonies on rocky islands. You can make a trip north in late spring or summer to observe them, but in Massachusetts we can only find them in the winter off our shore.

Off shore means many miles for most of these birds, but some alcids do come in close to the coast occasionally or even regularly. The winter of 1999 has been a good year to find alcids close to shore. Thus it was no surprise to find twenty eager people carpooling for an Allen Bird Club trip to Cape Ann. The rocky coastline of Gloucester and Rockport is the Mecca for a yearly pilgrimage by those who want to view the seabirds that spend the winter there.

Our first location was Atlantic Avenue. There among the usual loons, grebes, scoters, goldeneyes, and buffleheads was our first alcid. This was the black guillemot, which does not wander as much as its other cousins, staying close to its breeding sites. However, a few venture south to our coastline and are the one alcid found regularly within sight of land.

On over sixty trips to Cape Ann in 30 years I have never seen so many black guillemots, perhaps a dozen in this one area, some sporting the very white plumage of winter, and others the deep black breeding color with the large white wing patch. Like all alcids, they sit low in the water, diving often for deep swimming fish. They are only a foot long and hard to see, but we are up to the challenge, lined up along the edge of the boulders and ledges where surf crashes, peering through our optics.

Some of us spot a murre, but it quickly dives and disappears. The murres are half again larger than the black guillemots, but dive more and for longer periods. Finally we arrive at Andrews Point, the prime location for alcids, where we scan the waters eagerly. Here we get longer, closer, looks at several thick-billed murres, resplendent in their contrasting costume of jet black above and stark white below.

We find packs of the little harlequin duck, which stay close to the rocky shore and even climb on a rock that the waves wash over. They are also more common here than ever before.

Someone cries that she sees a razorbill, so we all focus on the spot and soon three of these alcids are found together, diving and floating in front of our dazzled eyes. They are similar to murres, but have not just thick, but almost massive bills. Usually there are only observed in flight, lines of birds arrowing low and fast over the water, short wings beating swiftly to bear chunky bodies from one secret sea to another. Here they were before us bringing that secret to light.

Now only one more alcid that we might hope to find. This one so small that at first when it was spied you had to wait for movement to be sure it was not a soda can. At eight inches long with no neck and a tiny beak, the dovekie, or little auk, is a virtual butter ball of the sea. Here it was bobbing in the shallow troughs, rising up on its rump to flutter its wings so fast it appeared to be a hovering hummingbird. How could a mite such as this survive in the vastness of the ocean?

The gull has been a symbol of the sea for a long time. Artists cannot draw a seascape without including a few soaring gulls. Most of us have encountered this big, obvious bird at the beach and are content to call it a "sea" gull.

However, there is an enormous variety of gull species, all having their own proper names. Fifty years ago there was only the herring gull residing in southern New England, and not very many of them either. Since then there has been an explosion in gull populations, and now we have three species that are more than abundant here. The herring gull is still the classic gray and white gull with the thick yellow bill and the ringing call.

In any trip to the coast, one can't help seeing the herring gull as well as the large dark gull with the long name, the greater black-backed gull. This aggressive and even predatory gull has invaded from farther north and is pressing its smaller cousin for living space. The third common gull has invaded us from the west, and is called the ring-billed gull.

The stronghold of the ring-billed gull is the large lakes and rivers of the interior continent. Their numbers are now so great that they spill over the land all the way to the Atlantic. They are often found in plowed, cut, or grassy fields searching for grubs like a robin. The adult bird is a carbon copy of the herring gull, except for its much smaller size and the black ring on its bill.

If one is what one eats, then the gull is not always the glamorous, noble, high-flying species we have met in art and fable. Gulls are mostly scavengers, adapted to scrounge the mud flats at low tide for dead or dying food, or pick it up as it floats on the surface of the sea. They are also adept at stealing from ducks and terns, not just the catches of these "hard working" fisher birds, but also their eggs and young during the nesting season.

When we are searching for birds on the coast we birders generally ignore the gulls, labeling them "trash birds," which, as you shall learn, is more than appropriate. We prefer to seek out more exotic fare, since gulls are present everywhere and in great numbers. However, there are some gull species that do occur in southern New England in tiny numbers during the winter, so a band of birders will hold their breath and visit the gulls in their alternate habitat, the inland dump.

The biggest and most fertile dump locally is in Manchester, Connecticut, where a few iceland, glaucous, lesser black-backed, and even a yellow-legged and a Thayer's gull have been reported this winter among the clouds of common gulls. Unfortunately, our group had spent too much time at the coast, and arrived as the dump was closing. Most of the gulls had already departed for their night roosts on the Connecticut River.

However, there were hundreds of crows still there and even a few vultures sailing around close to our heads. The biggest surprise was a red-tailed hawk sitting on a pile of refuse, hoping to snatch one of those other dump denizens, the loathsome, lowly rat. Our caravan drove to the top of this huge muddy mountain and got out to scan the few gulls that were left. The aroma was only vaguely sickening sweet, and beneath our feet was a squishy crust of unknown origin.

Like the rat, the gulls live on this unintentional handout from humans, but they are also not averse to the more deliberate welfare of those who spread bread. Earlier we had stopped at a fast-food place, where a man was feeding the gulls in the parking lot. They surrounded him like flies, hovering to catch in mid-air the scraps he tossed. Now you know why gulls are now present at all our local parking lots. It is usually the ring-billed gull, gleaning nearer the source of their sustenance, either the pavement or dumpster.

What do you think? Have you been properly introduced yet to the sea gull? Now you know this bird and his close cousins, the dump gull and the mall gull. Don't count the gull out yet, though. There is still much to learn and admire about this handsome, resourceful creature.

A few grackles and red-winged blackbirds are back for spring, but they might decide to reverse course. Sometimes a little discretion is necessary when the weather turns on you as it has recently. Early arriving migrants are lost in a field of north Atlantic icebergs instead of safe in their home ports looking for a mate. They may think their ardor is unsinkable, but the captain of the Titanic thought that about his lady ship.

If you kept your feeder cleared and stocked during the storm, you probably hosted a migrant or two. In fact these birds do stay alive and afloat in most late winter storms. Even at ten degrees and with a half foot of snow covering the earth, the redwing sits in a tree as calm as you please, belting out his loud "ga-ga-reeee" song.

The entire composition of the sparrows at rural feeders has changed over the last two weeks. The juncos declined dramatically, probably many moving on farther north already. Two song sparrows were joined by 3-4 others just arrived from the south. The big surprise was the numbers of tree sparrows, swelling to almost thirty when there were only few birds previously. For them the supply of seeds in weedy open fields is probably running low. That also may explain the return of the goldfinches. In January there were only a handful at the thistle feeders, now they swarm in uncountable numbers.

The sparrows are the mainstay of any feeding program, but a sparrow in the country is not the same as a sparrow in the city or suburb. You have to be careful when you read about "sparrows." Do they mean the large family of native species, all of whom feed and nest near the ground in grasses and brush? Or do they mean the finch that was imported from Europe over a century ago, and now lives exclusively around human habitations?

The latter bird is called the house "sparrow" in North America, but is a member of the weaver finch family. Once termed the "English sparrow," it is present in packed flocks at almost every feeder everywhere. It is larger than most sparrows and more obvious, always feeding on the open ground or pavement and retiring to a thick bush or building only to chatter in raucous pandemonium. It weaves a loose, messy nest of grass and junk in a cavity to raise its young.

In contrast, all of the true sparrows are skulkers and accomplished singers. A new one at the feeder was the fat and fancy fox sparrow, a bird we see here only as it passes through on its way to and from Quebec and the mid-Atlantic states. It derives its name from the rusty red coloring around the head, which contrasts with gray swaths on the back of the neck and above the eye. The heavy streaks on the breast are also reddish, as is the tail. The best giveaway is its size, for it is the largest sparrow you will see, about as big as a cardinal.

The fox sparrow rarely spends the winter here, but it pushes north very early with the blackbirds. Watch for one at your feeder now through the beginning of April. They need to reach northern Quebec on time, so they can raise two broods. The first nest is built in a bush, since snow still covers the ground. The second nest is on the ground.

They are often gymnasts when they feed, able to perform the difficult double leg kick. When the ground is covered with leaves or other litter, they scratch with both feet at once, kicking backward and then recovering in the flash of an eye. They will do this over and over to expose new seeds for the picking.

If you are really fortunate, you may hear the lovely, haunting song of the fox sparrow. It is long and musical with clear notes and sliding whistles, a rare treat away from its breeding grounds in the spruce forests of the north. Just seeing one at my feeder makes me want to whistle a tune. It may be cold and snowy, but "second spring" is close. I can hardly wait.

There is a collection of birding jokes on the internet lately. It starts with "You know you're a birder if," and then proceeds with about 25 endings, most of which apply to me. One of them finishes the sentence with "you name your children 'buteo' and 'accipiter." That never occurred to me.

These words are Latin terms used in the scientific names given to certain families of hawks. Buteo is the general Latin word meaning 'hawk,' and from it comes the word 'buzzard,' which is commonly used in the English names of European hawks. In America buzzard is used as a slang term to indicate a vulture.

There are four species of hawks found in New England that share the special characteristics that make them buteos. One is by far the hawk most seen by the casual person who pays attention to such things. It is the 'buteo jamaicensis,' the red-tailed hawk. Although this hawk is resident throughout the entire North American continent, the island of Jamaica was used in its scientific name, because this was the place of origin of the first specimen described in the literature.

Buteos are soaring hawks, using their broad, long wings to great advantage to circle or glide effortlessly, using wind currents and thermals. They hunt occasionally on the wing, looking for their prey in open fields and descending slowly and quietly to seize it from above. However, most buteos hunt even more often from a perch, sitting quietly in a tree until a rabbit or rodent appears below.

You can see a perched red-tailed hawk most of the winter along the interstates and other highways where there are expanses of seldom mowed grasses. The fences and speeding cars keep down the number of competing predators, like coyotes, and the hawks can feast on the burgeoning population of small grass eating mammals. Often the birds are in a low tree and quite close to the pavement, so one is startled by this huge appearing hawk practically in the break down lane.

Huge though the red-tailed hawk may appear close up, it is not an eagle. Eagles do not eat these mammals and would not be found in such places. They eat almost

exclusively fish, which they catch in lazy, gliding flight from the very surface of a large body of water. The only place you might casually see an eagle is if it flies over as you cross a bridge on the Connecticut River.

Through the winter the red-tail hawk has waited quietly and alone at its favored perches in a hunting territory. Now they are moving around much more, and can be seen flying above the treetops or high in the sky, usually in pairs. It is time to court, refurbish the nest, and mate.

Some of those we see doing this are permanent residents, who stay on their nesting grounds all year long. Others are birds who will soon depart for Maine and the Maritimes, where deep snows always make finding food too difficult.

The red-shouldered hawk is another buteo that nests with us, but it is much rarer and usually departs New England entirely for the winter. The rough-legged hawk is rarer still and comes to us only in the winter from the very far north. The broad-winged hawk is a common woodland nesting buteo, but at this moment is starting its long trip through Central America and Mexico to reach us by the end of next month.

Don't be surprised if the tail of the red-tailed hawk does not appear red. Only the upper side of the tail is reddish, and in some lights can still be just dark even when you do see it well. The underside of the bird is mostly white, with most individuals sporting a band of heavy streaking on the mid-section. The head, back and upper wings are dark brown spotted with a few white streaks and patches. On a perched bird the folded wings hide the red tail entirely.

So don't try to get a good look as you are speeding along the highway. Just enjoy a brief glimpse of this graceful hunter as you keep your eyes on the road. You now know it is a red-tailed hawk.

They say the eyes are windows to the soul, and it may be so. Looking into another's eyes can reveal much about their thoughts and feelings. The lover's gaze is perhaps the most famous feeling, but there are many others. It is also not just the human soul that can be seen through a glance.

For some creatures the eye is even more important and potent than ours. Have you ever been transfixed by the penetrating stare of the short-eared owl? Once seen, it will never leave your memory. Many years ago I was leading a bird club trip to Parker River National Wildlife Refuge in Newbury on the coast, north of Boston. You can drive along the barrier beach there and observe the marsh and meadows on the inland side.

As we arrived at a grassy hill, a short-eared owl came down on a meadow vole near the edge of the road. We stopped and watched as the owl mantled its capture, wings spread out in protective defense of its meal. The warning look the bird gave us haunts me still. It was the most alive and fearsome emotion I have ever seen in another creature's eyes.

Last week we saw another short-eared owl a few hundred yards further down that same road. He was just sitting in the grass, so the look he gave us was not so fierce, but still expressive and magical. Some of us had only seen brief distant looks at this owl face before. Its startling beauty was the highlight of the trip.

Like primates, birds are "sight animals," with a poor sense of smell. They share the need to detect food, enemies, and mates in the rarefied atmosphere of the treetops, where scents quickly dissipate. The binocular vision of birds is especially well developed, and the owl's vision is most like the human, because the visual fields of both eyes overlap, being set together in the front of the head. This allows more precise estimation of the ever-changing distances of moving objects, such as prey.

If you are wondering why an owl was out in the bright sun at mid-day, the answer is that this owl can see well in dark or light. Usually the short-eared owl is most active

at dusk and dawn. If it is not disturbed by the competing harrier or marsh hawk, which hunts only in daylight, it will be active then as well.

Owls can see well in full light, but they have the extra ability to see well in the dark, which brings us to the sense for which they are even better known, the sense of hearing. If their eyesight is acute, their ears are even more amazing. The short-eared owl gets its name from the small tufts on the top of its head, but those are only decoration, not ears. As with all owls, the enormous ear is buried deep within the protective layer of feathers on the side of the head.

A friend once told me he rubbed two fingers together and aroused instant attention from a sitting owl fifty yards away. The bird had flown in at first light as the friend was sitting motionless in his deer stand. This unique ability gives the owl the advantage it needs to feed itself, but the careless mouse morsel is not the only thing the owl hears. It hears other owls.

If eyes reveal the soul, then the sound of a singing owl tells even more. Unlike songbirds, both the male and female owl call in the night, serenading a duet that binds them together. The human voice can imitate the basic sounds of many owls, but the nuances of the real thing are beyond our ability to mimic.

Play a tape recording of an owl in the early morning well before dawn, when there is no traffic noise, and you will be rewarded with an amazing assortment of whistles, hoots, chortles, and purrs. Only the words of the poet or the voice of the lover can surpass it. Then you will know why owls are reputed to be wise. The depth, variety, and richness of the sound of the owl in the night is enough to charm and enlighten the dullest mind or the hardest heart.

If the eyes are windows to the soul, then the ears are the gates to paradise.

Another season has come and gone. A month ago I announced the arrival of "first Spring" on February 15, when the song of the red-winged blackbird was heard. Now "second Spring" has begun, with March 26 marking the day of the first phoebe song.

The first phoebe was not in my yard, as it sometimes is, but among the cottages on the shores of south Congamond Pond. The simple two-note call was repeated over and over. Like all the flycatchers, the song is hoarse and explosive, sounding as if the bird has a sore throat. The phoebe sings from a perch on a branch, a gray backed bird with excellent erect posture and a dull white belly.

The phoebe ought to be named the "house flycatcher," since it has taken to building its nest on any ledge it can find with an overhang above. Try to resist the impulse to remove the nest, for the phoebe is a pleasant companion in any yard. It will also eat many flies and spiders that might otherwise sneak through your walls and into the house. Such a hardy and hard working bird deserves a warm welcome, since it announces the first day of second Spring.

Returning at about the same time as the phoebes are the first hardy tree swallows. In California the swallows supposedly return to the mission buildings at San Juan Capistrano on March 17. Visitors always see them arrive there as the day warms, but only because they have spent the cold morning looking for scarce insects on the surface of nearby ponds and pools. The species at Capistrano is the cliff swallow, and, like the tree swallow, the first brave scouts come north very early. In California this means well before St. Patrick's Day.

How pleasant to step out of the house on a crisp morning and hear a robin sing. Flocks of robins are starting to cover the pastures and cutover hay fields. They look like tiny statues, erect and alert for the first sign of worm around them. A large field can be filled with several hundred robins, all stopping and starting like so many wooden soldiers on parade. Most will push on farther north, but a few residents are joining the morning chorus.

Already in full song are all the red-winged blackbirds, song sparrows, and bluebirds, birds of first Spring. A pair of bluebirds has already claimed the nesting box I rushed to erect in the field behind my house. If you have a box, set it up on a post or pole in the open, away from trees and bushes. Bluebirds begin early and native competing species that arrive later will not deter them if the bluebird has a head start. Then you might hear again the lovely alto warble of the Bluebird. No song is so sweet, yet gentle and low.

Perhaps we should have proper names for these seasons. I call the last six weeks "Duck season," because most of the new birds are members of this family. The ducks do not wait long before they depart from their winter quarters on the coastal ponds and marshes in Connecticut, Long Island and New Jersey. As soon as it warms enough, they appear in our area on the opened Connecticut River, or in pools flooded by rains near the river.

Most common of these ducks are the wood duck, green-winged teal, ring-necked duck, and hooded merganser. Of these only the wood duck is a resident here, the others migrating eventually to places farther north. A friend of mine who lives in a crowded suburb reported that a pair of wood ducks was perched on the roof of a neighbor's house. Occasionally you can find them in a large tree, but on a rooftop is very unusual.

Our two wintering "paddlers," the mallard and black duck, have moved away from the big river and can be found coupled off in almost any small pool of water. They certainly earn the name, which is applied to those ducks who do not dive for their food. Instead they tip up their rear ends and reach straight down with their bills to nibble on the delicate new weeds that are growing again on the bottom of shallow ponds.

With so many signs of spring, how can the human heart not grow again and sing?

The egg has long been a symbol of Spring, of new life and resurrection. In this century the old pagan traditions of coloring, hunting, and rolling eggs during Spring festivals are now popular customs at Easter.

The Easter egg has been associated with the rabbit because that animal was also a symbol of fertility, but baby chicks and ducklings are the new life hatching from the egg. Many wild ducks are returning to lay eggs and start new life. Each duck species has a special place and way to do it.

The six most common early arriving ducks are the mallard, black duck, green-winged teal, wood duck, ring-necked duck, and hooded merganser. The first four are "dabbling" or "puddle" ducks, and the last two are shallow "divers." All of them are found in relatively shallow water along pond edges, in marshes, or even in small puddles.

The mallard and black duck often feed by dabbling, tipping up their rear ends and reaching straight down with their bills to nibble on the delicate new plants that grow on the pond bottom. The teal and the wood duck do this occasionally, but more often browse on the surface of the water, sweeping their bills back and forth to glean floating vegetation and insects. All of these also graze on the seeds and vegetable matter found on banks and fields away from water.

The ring-necked duck and merganser dive for food beneath slightly deeper water. Diving ducks have shorter wings and their legs are placed farther back on the body, all to facilitate swimming under water. However, they cannot spring up from the water into the air the way the dabblers do with their longer wings. They have to paddle along the surface and get up speed before they are airborne.

The egg is a great source of food to other creatures, so the parent birds must protect the eggs from such depredations as well as against the cold. It is difficult to hide the nest when there is no foliage, but they have managed to find other methods of concealment.

The first three duck species lay their eggs in a nest that is built on the ground. The teal has to move farther north where larger, wilder wetlands still provide the extensive marsh grass and cattails it needs for its nest site. The mallard and black duck breed in our area near brooks and small ponds or marshes. They neatly conceal the nest in heavy dead vegetation left over from the previous summer.

I was amazed and totally delighted once to find a mallard nest, filled with over a dozen eggs. Inside those perfect white jewels new life was hidden among the dead grasses. Then I learned that predators follow human scent to such a succulent meal, and I decided not to look for one again, being happy with the memory of that single discovery. Today I noticed three drake mallards together with no females, so the hens must already by settled on their secret hoard.

Of the last three ducks, only the wood duck is a resident here, the others migrating eventually to places farther north. As its name implies, the wood duck is at home in trees, laying its eggs in a large cavity. It is startling to see this flat-footed swimmer standing at ease high on a tree branch. A friend of mine who lives in a crowded suburb reported that a pair of wood ducks was perched on the roof of a neighbor's house just a week ago.

It is common now to see wood duck boxes installed in ponds, and sometimes the wood duck actually uses them. It prefers to find a site in the woods away from water. The young ducklings readily and safely plop down from the nest hole and scurry overland behind the mother hen to water.

The boxes over water seem to be especially prone to a strange behavior called "dumping." A female wood duck will deposit eggs in another female's nest and up to fifty eggs have been found in a single cavity. It is enough eggs for an Easter ritual, but too many to hatch. When too much life threatens the delicate balance, then even the marvelous design of the egg is made infertile.

The sun had set as more than a dozen of us gathered around in a circle like a group of conspirators, or perhaps we were celebrants, preparing for a religious ceremony. We were not here to stage a ritual drama, but to observe one. We hoped to witness the amazing and bizarre courtship flight of the American woodcock.

Our leader led us out along the trail and hedgerow, and as we reached the center of the fields we began to hear the calls of the woodcock around us. Those with good ears could hear at least four males emitting a single loud, nasal buzz every two to three seconds. After a dozen or more of these calls, the bird would launch into the air.

There was enough light to see the fat-bodied bird as it flew low over the ground, the wings beating in a mad blur. With such an effort, the bird was barely moving forward at all. Slowly he circled around us, higher and higher into the gray sky, easily lost to view if your binoculars wavered for an instant.

Cascading down to our ears was a magical twittering of notes, each one high and hard and never ending in a jazzy repeated rhythm. It was only recently that naturalists knew the sounds came not from the bird's vocal cord, but from those wild wing beats.

As the bird reached a great height over our heads, the circles became smaller and the notes came faster, until they were a frenzied blur of sound. As they suddenly ceased, the bird fell, first like a leaf in the wind, then like a plummeting stone, slipping and sliding to and fro in random descent, until the ground seemed to come gently up to cradle him.

The bird landed near one of us, who motioned us over. From twenty feet away we trained three lights upon the bird, who ignored light and gawkers, caught up in courting bliss. The rare close up of this bird was enough to confirm the suspicion that this was either one of nature's greatest marvels or greatest mistakes.

He was light brown like the dead grass upon which he sat, the back and head decorated with darker streaking and patches. He had no tail and no neck, just belly, head and bill.

What a bill! It was six inches long, and slender as a dagger. Every few seconds it opened wide to let out the buzzy one-note song, and the tips appeared to bend away from each other. The bird had a huge deep, black, cyclopean eye on the side of its head. You could only guess that there was a similar one on the other side. What was the purpose of this amazing body design?

The bill was an efficient earthworm extractor, plunged into the damp earth and able to open at the tip to grasp the wily worm and pull it from its encasing home. The earliest morning bird would never beat this deadly night hunter. It deserves a better name, like whistler or bogsucker, two of its colorful nicknames.

It is even misnamed, living on the earth in moist thickets, not in deep woods, and always close to some open ground. There it stays, needing no tail to steer through trees, or neck to reach up high. With that bill so often buried in the muck, the bird needed a pair of sharp eyes near the back of its head so as to see all around in case of an approaching predator.

With that spectacular display our male was inviting the female, who kept hidden in the small grove of alders nearby, to come out to mate. She might eventually choose any or all of the males around this field in the mating period, depending on some subtle attraction in the aerial show.

Once that was done, she would lay three or four fertile eggs on the ground and plop her round body down upon them. Once hatched, the precocious downy bundles would join the worm team and be fully grown in three weeks. The mother has been known to grasp the flightless young between her stubby legs and carry them away from harm.

What mind imagined this intricate design unveiled by evolution? When we witness and stand in awe of it, we become the image of that mind.

Although the Spring migration is the most exciting time of the year, for most species it is difficult to actually see a bird migrating. Almost all of our regular songbirds migrate at night, primarily to avoid predation by hawks. In Spring we only know a night migration has occurred when we go out in the morning and find new birds have arrived.

The hawks themselves migrate during the day, but it takes a little effort to see them do so. They generally fly quite high and are seen as small specks or not at all by the naked eye. You can spot them by scanning the sky with binoculars. In Spring the last two weeks of April are the time when most of our hawks arrive or move by on their way farther north.

One species people now think of when they are talking about hawks is the peregrine falcon. However, the peregrine was never a common bird in New England, and before DDT the only nesting sites known in Hampden County were the cliffs of Mt. Tom in Holyoke and Mt. Tekoa in Westfield. Now we have one pair using the buildings or bridges of Springfield.

This Springfield pair does not migrate much, probably spending the winter on the nearby coasts of Connecticut or Long Island, only a few hours flight time away. The peregrines that do migrate, travel between the Arctic tundra and the coasts of tropical America. Most of them migrate along or off the coast, so they also are rarely seen here in our inland region. The peregrine is not truly a typical bird of our area.

There is a falcon that we do see here, however, both as a migrant and a breeder. That is the American kestrel. Falcon is the word used to describe a particular group of hawks which are fast flying birds of the open country. They are distinguished by their narrow, long pointed wings which they use for swift flight to attack their prey.

The kestrel is our most colorful hawk, the male showing a rich, red back and tail contrasting with blue wings. The back and wings of the female are red with heavy black barring. The white face of both sexes has two black whisker marks on the side, similar to the peregrine. The peregrine may be spectacular and the eagle majestic, but I like to think of the kestrel as a more worthy emblem of America; bright and beautiful, but down to earth.

The kestrel is much smaller than the peregrine and captures mostly large insects or small rodents, only occasionally a bird. They hunt from an isolated perch in a field or by flying and hovering over a field. When they see a grasshopper, beetle, or mouse, they plummet swiftly down to seize it. The kestrel is a species in serious decline everywhere in the northeast because of the loss of grasslands.

Twenty or more of these falcons were counted near the river in the east meadows of Northampton one day this week. Like the red-tailed hawk they also like to use the grasses along the interstate highways for hunting areas. When the skies clear and the winds turn to the southwest, they continue the journey farther north to Maine or New Brunswick, where more and larger grasslands await them. When migrating, they can soar very high, but you can always tell them by those pointed wings.

Last week I counted nine kestrels flying past my Granville hawkwatch, the same day over two hundred were counted migrating at Plum Island, a barrier beach north of Boston. It is a thrill to see these birds course steadily past in ones and twos. They seem a never-ending stream of life coming from unknown places and passing on to what was once a certain destination. Will the home they left months ago still be there when they arrive?

Kestrels can be helped to breed, because they nest in tree cavities and will use a nest box. Last year a pair of kestrels nested in one I put up, and they have already returned this Spring. There is a special sense of pride in seeing these two handsome falcons sitting side by side on a home you built and provided. When you hear of falcons, think of the kestrel, our true New England falcon.