“If I were an artist, trying to paint this ballet of birds,
Would I find my brushstrokes, as lacking as my words?
Every time I raise my eyes, something new on the shore,
Seasons change, a shame there’s names for only four”
From “The Tidal Bay” by Sharon Nauss-Hughes 2004
These lyrics were written when we lived in the Annapolis Valley, inspired by the sandpipers that visit the mudflats of the Minas Basin every summer on their annual migration. When the flocks of shorebirds take to the air and move as one (called murmuration), it’s an unforgettable sight.
Here on the shores of our freshwater lake, what we lack in numbers we make up for in diversity, and a front-row seat to the delightful shows of our feathered friends.
For a long time, I thought most birds flew south for the winter. (Why do they call the migratory humans “snowbirds” when they don’t stick around for the snow!? Good song, though.)
I’ve since learned that a whole slew of birds spend winter in Nova Scotia, some pushing the northern limits of their range. We see it with our own eyes - chickadees, nuthatches and goldfinches all pay us a visit, and the red breasts of robins add colour to winter whites long before spring.
Summer is the height of breeding season, that’s when we can witness the efforts, failures and successes of the yardbirds and waterbirds as they make their nests and raise their offspring.
It’s hard to fathom bird couples that start their families too early or too late, or have many more babies than can possibly survive, on purpose, and yet that’s part of nature’s story - beating the odds that are stacked against them. I know better than to project human emotions on them, but that doesn’t stop me from sharing what I sense as their hopes and sorrows.
If I had to pick a favourite success story in this summer of ‘22, it would be meeting a new addition to the loon family.
Lake life isn’t complete without the loons. Our lake supports a small number of pairs, I can’t say for certain how many. Small groups circle or fish together, and I meet them in my kayak but often only two at a time. It’s hard to tell one pair from another, or even males from females; the males may be slightly larger, but there’s no bright green heads like the mallard drakes, no long lines of young ones swimming with their parents like the ducklings or goslings.
Loons can live long, monogamous lives, but their breeding efforts aren’t successful every year. Nests get raided by predators or washed out by boat wakes, it’s a wonder any poor chicks survive. I dream of seeing a fluffy brown newborn or two riding on the back of their mama, but it hasn’t been my good fortune to see those yet.
This year, one day in August, there were two loons swimming together, one had a white underside, grayish-tan head, smaller than the other. It’s not unusual to see feathers change in autumn, but it was early for that, and a quick look-up told me this was very likely an immature juvenile. Not a chick, but definitely a new member of the family! When they surfaced in the cove, I headed to the shoreline, stayed low and quiet, near enough for the telephoto lens to get some closeups.
I’m sure she saw me but she didn’t abandon the lessons. That was my interpretation - our cove is sheltered, shallow, full of small fish, a perfect place for a young diving bird to learn adult skills. Loons are strong, independent birds, not inclined to fear one landlubber human, but having them stay so close for so long is rare. I felt very grateful for the trust.
Will there be one more pair on the lake, or will the young one start a family elsewhere? A mystery but a memorable moment in my summer of birdwatching. Here’s a few photos.
The second offspring story of the summer is about robins. There’s so many of those to choose from – we’ve got an abundance of robins in the hood!
Rough start, for the second year in a row, the forsythia bush proved to be a bad nesting choice, with a nest and blue eggshells cracked on the ground after all that effort, heartbreaking.
There was no proof that the chipmunks or squirrels were guilty, but their proximity to the crime made them prime suspects. And yes, they’re cute and everyone’s got to eat but the yard rodents are well-fed without going after eggs and fledglings, my personal opinion.
The other nest was deep in the holly bush, hidden but well-placed for peeks from the verandah, lucky me. I watched the construction, laying, brooding and eventual birth of the hatchlings. From three blue eggs, to two hatched, and then an empty nest. Nothing on the ground, the timing was right for fledglings, the adults busy gathering worms, all good signs.
Strolling by the holly bush one day, I heard much chirping and chipping near the nest site, and there almost at my feet was a tiny robin, with a chipmunk close by. Chippy took off running when I scared him, but when I turned around baby was gone, too. It looked still too young to fly, but there it was, a few feet off the ground on the rim of a post. “I’m just going to stay up here for now.” Remorse, would the parents find it? Is chipmunk-chasing futile? I backed away, occupied chippy with some nuts at a faraway spot and watched from a safe distance.
No worries - fledgling peeped, mama heard, worms were fed on the post perch. The fledgling grew fast and was soon a juvenile, spitting image of its parents. Many comedies and tragedies on the robin stage this summer, tales for another day.
The mallard ducks always bring the drama and with so many duckling predators, broods often dwindle from a dozen to a few, sad; but there's a twist to the story this year.
Female ducks will often return to a former nesting spot or birth place. A matched-up pair arrived at the pond while there was still ice in the lake and got things started early this spring. They find our cove a romantic place to court and spark, so I’ve been schooled in the mating habits of mallards without the need of book-learning.
Then a second pair arrived after the first; the girls were likely related, but they did not get along. After several hostile territory battles with no clear winners, the time for first ducklings came and went without a sign, four ducks in one small pond didn’t work out so well.
Despite my worries, hens frequently disappear only to return weeks later with a dozen ducklings after all. Yay! But this early June, a mama duck swam by with her one lone duckling tagging along as close as could be, my heart.
The other female showed up not long after with a larger brood, and they all gathered together by the dock. There was splashing, nipping and a feathers-flying kerfuffle, but in the end the sister-ducks and duckling cousins swam off together in what looked like acceptance of an extended family.
Later in the summer, I saw an older only child swimming with her mama, so I’ll take that as a happy ending to the duck drama of ’22. 
It was a big summer for big birds, I spotted red-tailed hawk, barred owl, blue heron, and a close encounter of the bird kind with the biggest of them all – a full-grown bald eagle who caught a fish and had a long, leisurely lunch in the cove. Poor fishy, but many smallmouth bass, only a few big eagles. 
From the biggest to the smallest, another humdinger of a summer for hummers. With so many hummingbirds around, you could hear how vocal they are – twittering as they dance and fight over the bright-pink salvia.
Bird-listening is the audio counterpart to my bird-watching hobby. The chirps, calls, cries, peeps and songs, the sounds of summer. It would be a sombre and too-quiet world without birdsong.
There were lots of reports and photos of hummingbirds all around the province this summer, good for them! They’re such fast flyers, it was fun to also try and catch them resting, which they often do on branches and clothes lines (and sticking out their tongue, which you don't see quite as often!)
It was a busy and successful summer for the sparrows and warblers too, small birds in the pines and skittering under the shelter of bushes. I’ve read that song sparrows can have up to seven clutches a summer, and I believe it. Fledglings from May to mid-September! The nests of the smalls are discreet, their stories more mundane, but still entertaining and nice photos for the highlight reel. Most of the warblers are so quick, I’ve learned to focus on the branch where I think he might land next, because where he is now is already too late. Here's a few last highlights from the summer collection.
It’s sad to see the summer days fade away, but I’ve reached the Goldilocks age where I don’t fancy weather that’s too hot or too cold, so I welcome the pleasant days of autumn that are mostly juuusst right.
Thank you so much for spending some time with me and my birds of summer stories. I hope you had a great summer and here's to a wonderful fall season! I'll be spending time around the yard, down to the lake and into the woods, waving good-bye to our summer birds and hello to the wildlife of winter.