Seeing tiny gnatcatcher puts a spring in your step
Little blue and grey bird, afternoon sunshine marking change of season
At Ashbridge’s Bay early this week, the wind was bitter, but the sky was blue. Out on the lake, a shade of aquamarine more usually seen in the Caribbean, there were whitecaps. But in a protected spot away from the stiff breeze, I could feel the sun’s rays penetrate through my old jacket, warming my soul. Finally. For the first time this year, I could really believe that spring was upon us. It seemed to me that the great glass celestial spheres that guide our planet had at long last clinked into place and the season of rebirth had arrived in its fullness.
As I wandered along the path toward the point, a trio of double-crested cormorants flew by in single file over the lake, so close to the water it seemed their wings would get wet. They looked like black arrows marking out a path on a blue map.
In the bay, the ducks, giddy with hormones, postured and squawked and preened.
The buffleheads are gone now from these waters, embarked on their lengthy journey north toward James Bay, or farther, to begin their summer nesting and breeding. The long-tails, though, linger.
It made me wonder. What secret sign were they waiting for? What message from the stars would provide the impetus for them to start their own migrations toward the High Arctic?
As I wandered, I realized there was no need to mourn the departure of our winter ducks. For just as they take their leave, our precious songbirds return. I found warblers in the weeping willows, ruby-crowned kinglets in the jack pine and the air was filled with the excited twitter of finches.
Out at the end of the path, in a thicket of buckthorn, I espied a flash of blue. It was a tiny bird — new to me — hidden among the thorns and withered berries.
Just as I was wondering what this creature could be, along the path came a binocular-toting gentleman I’d met on the path a few times before. It was Leon, a very knowledgeable birder.
Seeing me scouting the bushes, he asked: “What have you got there?”
“I have no clue,” I responded. “Something tiny and blue.”
Catching a glimpse of the little bird flicking its long tail back and forth in the bushes, Leon knew instantly. “Bluegrey gnatcatcher. Wonderful!”
We enjoyed a peaceful time in the afternoon sunshine, watching the gnatcatcher catching his gnats, and chatting about all our other avian finds of the day. Leon was chuffed to have seen a palm warbler, newly returned from the Yucatan, perhaps.
Father Time was calling me, so I reluctantly took my leave and headed for home. It was slow going, though. Every few metres, another new migrant sang to me. And I swear I saw a kestrel — North America’s smallest falcon — perched high up in a cottonwood.
As I made my way out of the park, a pair of belted kingfishers swooped back and forth across the bay, periodically plunging straight down into the water and coming up with a fish.
A flotilla of ducks — gadwalls, mallards and scaups among them — settled their mating squabbles with a great deal of quacking and showing off. Three youngish mute swans put on a show, two of them repeatedly chasing an interloper out of the bay, running across the water while flapping their enormous wings.
As I reached the parking lot, I remembered that before I had said goodbye to Leon, he thanked me. “What for?” I asked. “For finding the blue-grey gnatcatcher,” he said. “You made my day.”
Funny. I thought it was he who had made my memorable spring day. mbream@thestar.ca