Seet, seet, seet. I hear a high-pitched call coming from the bushes and my heart jumps for joy – our winter sparrows have arrived! I crouch down to take a peek at the activity on the ground while being careful to not disturb the birds and find one of my favorite winter sparrows: the Golden-crowned Sparrow.
Golden-crowned Sparrow, 2016
This little, brown sparrow has a brilliant golden crown nestled in between two thick dark lines on its crown. During the winter the gold and black is turned down a notch in brightness for its non-breeding plumage, which is what we typically see in the Bay Area.
Golden-crowned Sparrow on Broccoli, 2017
Watch for these sparrows in mixed flocks as they forage on the ground and trees for food. They are often found alongside White-crowned Sparrows which are remarkably similar but with white and black stripes down its head that looks like a skunk. I absolutely adore the songs of the Golden-crowned sparrows. To me it’s a melancholy yet sweet song that transports me to a cozy home in the winter.
Yesterday, I visited Briones Regional Park, which is located in the East Bay. It was the middle of the week and there was a striking absence of park visitors at the Bear Creek Staging Area. When I stepped out of the car, I was greeted with a cool, crisp breeze. A chorus of bird calls and chip notes sprang from the ground. Dark-eyed juncos, white-crowned sparrows, and golden-crowned sparrows ignored my presence as they focused their attention on finding sustenance.
Golden-Crowned Sparrow, 2018
The hike up Abrigo Valley Trail was unusually quiet. I hardly spotted or heard any birds except for three red-tailed hawks that were ever-present during the two-hour hike. Up, up, up I walked along the dirt trail until I reached a picnic area. I had visited this spot over the summer and found the rare indigo bunting which made itself at home amongst the luscious purple-flowered thistles that took over the landscape. The bunting was long gone, but white- and golden-crowned sparrows (which I affectionately call “crown sparrows”), lesser goldfinches, and western bluebirds danced atop the crisp, dried thistle remains. When I closed my eyes, I could hear the thistle rattle against the breeze.
Northern Flicker feather found on a previous hike, 2018. Note the red shaft (hard piece down the center) that indicates a “red-shafted” Northern Flicker.
The walk back yielded more birds – odd as it was the noon hour and general wisdom suggests that birds are more active at dusk and dawn. Fall birding is not as musical as spring birding when birds are singing for mates and announcing their territories. Instead, I had to rely on picking out slight movements in the trees, which is a difficult task when the leaves are blowing in the wind. But the patience is worth it. I saw an oak titmouse grab something fat and green and repeatedly smack it against a branch. A female Townsend’s warbler flew into my view while I watched the titmouse. I caught a bigger movement out of the corner of my eye and out popped a Nuttall’s woodpecker with crisp white lines down her back. I accidentally scattered a dozen or so dark-eyed juncos that were expertly camouflaged on the ground, flicking their diagnostic white-lined tail feathers in retreat.
Dark-Eyed Junco, “Oregon” subspecies, 2018
It was a joy to spend time watching the day-to-day activity of our local birds and be present in nature.
