Tag Archives: eastern kingbird (Tyrannus tyrannus)

Some flew this path before

The crystal river flows south these days.  Winged ones swim from home and hearth toward winter vacations in warmer climes.  Some journey to the end of the river while others find respite along its shores.  I watch some dive in and leave, not to be seen again until next year; I watch others arrive from upstream who only stay until spring; and I see those who do not travel the winding path of the migration flow, but who instead live all year upon the banks we call home.

A male wood duck (Aix sponsa) in breeding plumage as he floats on still waters (2009_02_13_008550)

Unlike most birds, ducks molt twice per year: once in late summer to early autumn as they don their breeding plumage, then again in late spring to early summer as they dress in eclipse plumage.  This male wood duck (Aix sponsa) has just finished putting on his breeding best, and the result is what I consider to be the most beautiful duck plumage on the planet.  Though this species lives here all year, wood duck numbers grow dramatically in winter as northern populations move south.

Two juvenile ring-billed gulls (Larus delawarensis) arguing atop a light post (2009_02_13_008370)

Two juvenile ring-billed gulls (Larus delawarensis) disagree about how many birds can comfortably sit atop the light post.  Along with a variety of other gull and tern species, these birds spend winter here before returning to homes that don’t get as hot.  Only the interior least tern lives and breeds at White Rock Lake in summer, though many gull and tern species visit regularly; those numbers grow dramatically in winter.

An Eastern kingbird (Tyrannus tyrannus) perched in a tree (2009_04_16_015208)

Eastern kingbirds (Tyrannus tyrannus) live and breed here, but as most other flycatchers do, they must head south in winter lest they starve for lack of food.  Yet even as innumerable insectivores like these move away, others fill the void—for our weather limits but does not prohibit insects in winter.

A clay-colored sparrow (Spizella pallida) sitting in an evergreen tree (2009_05_04_017996)

Clay-colored sparrows (Spizella pallida) stop only to grab a meal and some rest, then they wade back into the airborne river and swim southward.  For them, deep South Texas is as far north as they will stay in winter.  This one nibbled on evergreens with some friends before taking flight.

A female barn swallow (Hirundo rustica) standing on the side of a bridge (2009_05_04_018028)

This female barn swallow (Hirundo rustica) no doubt will return in spring to mate and nest.  Perhaps she will return to the same bridge where I found her, a footbridge under which barn swallows brood and raise young every year.  In spring they will fill the air with song and aerobatics.  For now, however, they drift on the currents that move steadily away, always toward warmth, a mass of life following autumn’s progression toward the spring that lies just beyond the equator.

A male common grackle (Quiscalus quiscula) rustling his feathers (2009_05_04_018317)

This male common grackle (Quiscalus quiscula) stood on the pier and rustled his feathers as if shaking off the gloomy prospect of migration.  This species is a yearlong resident, though populations further north move here in winter to escape the colder weather.  By December at least two grackle species will fill the mornings with noise and antics, hundreds of them perching along overhead wires at nearly every road intersection.  And when they move to find food, they move en masse in a boisterous cloud that would embarrass whole flocks of European starlings.

A western kingbird (Tyrannus verticalis) perched on a branch (2009_05_17_019847)

Like their eastern cousins, western kingbirds (Tyrannus verticalis) thrive in the warm months that provide bountiful invertebrates for flycatchers.  But the buffet dwindles as cooler weather prevails, hence the kingbirds take flight and join the army of life heading south.  They will be gone only until spring when autumn filters into the southern hemisphere.  I already miss their voices.

A female red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus) perched in reeds (2009_05_31_020987)

Not a day goes by when I can’t see a red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus).  This female watching me soon will be joined by more of her kind who arrive on the crystal river and come ashore to overwinter with friends.  In the coming months these birds will fill every reed bed around the lake, a cacophony of life filling the dormant winter browns with vigorous antics and delightful song.  Many faces will join hers, and walks around White Rock Lake will proffer scenes like this multiplied a thousandfold.

[more migration photos coming]

The plague year

It took little more than a few seconds after the new year began for many to realize 2008 had been a catastrophe of epic proportions.  A rather Grinch-like mood shuttled people through the holidays, an otherwise hectic and stressful time made worse by economic turmoil, emotional and psychological pressures, worries over what next horror would strike out from the shadows, and when the unrelenting gloom cloaking the world might peel back a corner and let in a wee bit of light.

Two eastern kingbirds (Tyrannus tyrannus) perched in a tree (20080426_04639)

Many with whom I’ve spoken or whose blogs I’ve read share a belief that 2009 represents hope, a hope rooted in a need for something different, a want for an outlook not mired in yet more bad news.  It glows with a demand-cum-expectation that 2009 be a year of change.  Whether that change manifests in reality seems to matter little.

A male gadwall (Anas strepera) floating on the still surface of White Rock Lake (20080223_02152)

I entered December with a growing dread.  My own battles with depression notwithstanding, I swirled around a chasm of darkness that pulled me in deeper and deeper.  Even as my birthday passed a few weeks ago marking my 38th anniversary on this planet, dimmed became the light in which I had lived for some time.  And I did not know then any more than I know now why I became entrapped in such a lightless place.

Two non-breeding male ruddy ducks (Oxyura jamaicensis) slowly swimming away from shore (20080223_02109)

Yet lightless it is and, although I felt it impossible, more lightless it has become.  Everyone has a different tale to tell as to why they enter this year with such a dim view of things.  I admitted in a comment at Annie’s place in mid-December that trials and tribulations lack a quantifiable sameness between people since “[e]very circumstance is different, every life a standalone event.”  It is for that reason alone that my own forlorn entanglement with this new year continues its relentless sinking no matter how much a collective hope now blankets whatever shared mentality we own.

A snow goose (Chen caerulescens) perusing dry winter grass (IMG_20080106_00980)

But I do not share a part of that collective hope.  Not now, anyway.  Part of what made 2008 so sinister for me was my job.  What makes 2009 less hopeful still comes again from my job.  It robs from me every bit of life and time I call spare, and this month it does so at an even more cataclysmic rate.  I work three of the next four weekends.  I suffer through our on-call hell every three to four days.  I lose the whole of what is dear to the monster of what I abhor most: living to work instead of working to live.

A double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) perched in a tree (IMG_20080106_00960)

Wiping away the employment Vaseline covering the lens of life clears the view only slightly.  I believe the fog of agony now taints the world far too much.  My first novel has languished beneath the guise of paying the bills and longs for the completing light of day; my second and third novels, both already in the works, wish for the first to move aside so they can grow and prosper.  The Kids deserve so much more than they receive from me, for they give me so much more than I can state.  Family and friends wallow in the wasteland of lost time that work consumes at an increasing rate.  I cannot quit, though, given the economic hardship befalling the world.  Finding another job proves more difficult with each passing moment.

An American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) perched in a tree (IMG_20080105_00852)

What fiendish demon of the night holds my soul in its grasp?  What vile, ghoulish, devilish monster eats away at the very heart of me?

I plunge headlong toward oblivion, my spirit lost to the vacuous depths of despair.  I’ve been here before, been on this terrible path far too many times to count…  And I despise the course now resting before me.

A new year proffers little for me, but instead it takes more than the previous year ever imagined.

Welcome to the plague year…

— — — — — — — — — —

Photos:

[1] Two eastern kingbirds (Tyrannus tyrannus) perched in a tree.

[2] A male gadwall (Anas strepera) floating on the still surface of White Rock Lake.

[3] Two non-breeding male ruddy ducks (Oxyura jamaicensis) slowly swimming away from shore.

[4] A snow goose (Chen caerulescens) perusing dry winter grass.

[5] A double-crested cormorant (Phalacrocorax auritus) perched in a tree.

[6] An American crow (Corvus brachyrhynchos) perched in a tree.

Birds I never knew – Part 3

Ever had the wrong camera for the job?  Ever taken aim and snapped a photo of something so far away that you’re convinced it’s just a leaf blowing in the wind?  Ever taken pictures out of the moonroof of your car while speeding along a busy boulevard?

Truth be told, many times I’ve attempted to capture an image that I knew ahead of time was well outside the scope of my abilities, the power of the camera, and the convenience of the circumstances.

But I never let any of that stop me from trying.

A juvenile yellow-crowned night heron (Nyctanassa violacea) perched on a fallen tree at Lake Tawakoni (211_1130)

A juvenile yellow-crowned night heron (Nyctanassa violacea).  While visiting Lake Tawakoni more than a year ago to see the giant spider web that spanned acre after acre of the shoreline, I chanced upon a small bay thriving with wildlife.  I regrettably had only my previous camera with me, a Canon PowerShot S50, and it simply had none of the range or power I needed for such a vast and beautiful place.  Yet I felt a tinge of excitement when I reviewed the images later and found it had memorialized this child as it stood preening in the morning sun.  The bird had been so far away from me that I couldn’t tell what it was—other than being a large bird, I mean; I was therefore pleased to no end to find that small camera had been able to see what I myself scarcely recognized from across the water.

A male eastern bluebird (Sialia sialis) clinging to a bare branch at the top of a tree (20080414_03480)

A male eastern bluebird (Sialia sialis).  Mom provides several nesting spots for birds around the family farm, and one species that makes it their home every year is the eastern bluebird.  Although we had seen the mated pair busily flitting about the main yard as they tended to their family duties, I had not been able to take a photo as we ourselves were busy with hour own duties.  Standing at the far end of one of the pastures downhill from the house, I happened to see a shadow dancing at the very top of a tree on the far side of the farm.  I decided to attempt a photograph even thought I was at a tremendous disadvantage.

A female lesser scaup (Aythya affinis) swimming in White Rock Lake (20080314_02701)

A female lesser scaup (Aythya affinis).  The males of this species are gregarious, yet the females always seem to be aloof…even a tad disinterested.  I admit once they’re mated they stay with their male counterparts, but as a group waiting to find a man, the females keep to themselves and stay well out of sight.  Imagine, then, my pleasant surprise to find this lone female trailing a group of males well out in the center of White Rock Lake.  I ran around Sunset Bay to find a higher vantage closer to their location, then I took a few pictures despite knowing she was too far away to see clearly.

A female spotted sandpiper (Actitis macularia) hurrying along the concrete steps behind the Bathhouse Cultural Center at White Rock Lake (20080426_04797)

A female spotted sandpiper (Actitis macularia).  After arriving at the Bathhouse Cultural Center where I would begin my walk, I sat atop a picnic table far from the water’s edge as I collected my things, put filters on the camera, and packed spare batteries and the like in the tripod bag.  American coots flying by drew my attention to the lake where I saw this gal bobbing along the concrete steps in the old swimming area.  She wasted no time as she hurried along, so I wasted no time in taking aim and snapping a photo.  As unprepared as I was, and despite my disadvantaged location well away from her position, I was happy I didn’t wait longer than I did: she vanished right after I pressed the button, flitting across the water and arcing quickly through the air out of sight.

A western kingbird (Tyrannus verticalis) perched on a wire (20080712_09306)

A western kingbird (Tyrannus verticalis).  Driving along sans a care in the world save surviving Dallas’s horrific traffic, I do my best to remain aware of the nature that thrives even in this concrete jungle.  I’ve seen American kestrels perched atop light poles, massive hawks circling right above the road, armadillos sauntering along as though they own the place, and all manner of flora and fauna just hoping someone will notice them, appreciate them.  And so it was with this bird.  Resting on a wire hanging above the road, my quick approach meant I didn’t recognize it and wouldn’t be around long enough to do so.  I therefore opened the moonroof and held the camera out above the car as I sped along beneath it.  I didn’t zoom in since that would have made it impossible to take a picture or drive, or both.  What resulted was a wide-angle shot that hid this beautiful little spot of feathers off in one corner of a very large, very blank image.

An eastern kingbird (Tyrannus tyrannus) perched on a plant in the middle of a field (20080426_04631)

An eastern kingbird (Tyrannus tyrannus).  Because one good kingbird deserves another.  No matter how often I visit White Rock Lake and walk the miles of shoreline, I never fail to see a new flower, snake, bird, or other bit of nature.  It’s not that I never noticed before; it’s just that this large expanse offers refuge to so many species that one can never see them all (and that doesn’t include migrants, some of whom are extremely rare in this area).  Well downhill of a massive field of wildflowers and grasses, I saw a red-winged blackbird perched on a wire and decided to try for a shot.  I had to face into the sun to do it, so I knelt down behind some brush to take advantage of the paltry shade it offered.  Only then did my vision clear enough for me to see this kingbird resting far uphill from me in a spot where the plants behind it gave some shade.

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