By Catie Resor
Until a few days ago, the crickets were still chirping, but it was clear that change was on its way. Fall is a quiet time in the woods, and the once-background ring of crickets comes to the foreground as other sounds drop away, and everything quiets in preparation for winter. As the ferns senesce to a pale yellow, the quality of the light changes, and the smell of mildewing leaves drifts up from the ground. The sun is still warm, but the light streams in at a weaker angle.
The other day, we spotted a lone thrush quietly moving through the undergrowth. Those that have lingered are all business, filling up for the long journey south. Although the chorus of birdsong of summer is past, you can still find yourself occasionally surrounded by raucous bands of chickadees, titmice, and nuthatches as they pass through the landscape. These birds band together for the cold months in mixed-species flocks, sharing news of food sources and predators and presumably settling together in brush or tree cavities during the now longer nights. They stream through the canopy until they are gone, leaving a silence in their wake.
Mainly, the fall woods are quiet, and in the stillness, the calls of blue jays seem to stand out. I will always associate the sound of jays with fall. The calls of woodpeckers also stand out, and if you stand quietly in a patch of snags, you can almost always hear tapping and find a downy, a red-bellied, or one of our other woodpeckers working the bare branches overhead. A couple of weeks ago, the refugees from the mountains began to arrive with the song of the white-throated sparrows and the flashy white tail coverts of the juncos bounding away as they startle off the ground.
We all benefit from the gift of preserved land, but especially the birds that depend on intact woodland for their survival. Our land trust properties play a vital role in the landscape, providing shelter, food, and respite for migrating birds, as well as habitat for our “locals.”