I had just finished lamenting in my last post over the dearth of "wow" moments in this year's bird sightings when I drove into just such an event three houses up the street from my home. In fact I actually drove under an entire flock of them.
I've seen cedar waxwings only once before, near my sister-in-law's home in Ventura County near Los Angeles. There might have been two dozen of them gathered high in some trees in that tightly manicured neighborhood. Even when I was more than twenty feet below them, my camouflaged presence so close to their perch's leafy canopy scared them away. Nevertheless they kept returning to the same couple of trees which allowed me to get a few photographs over the course of a weekend.
I wasn't quite that lucky with last week's sighting though. As I drove along my street, I noticed the group of birds in a palo verde tree. Since the tree hadn't burst into its spring blooms yet, the eight or nine individual birds clearly stood out against the spindly branches. And even better, my sunroof was open, affording me a clear overhead view of these gorgeous birds.
Cedar waxwings are indeed common visitors to Arizona, but their stays seem to be seasonal, mostly in the winter. As I've observed, they gather and travel in large flocks, and feed on berries. Since trees are only starting to bloom in my part of Phoenix, I can't imagine there are many fruits to feast on.
In fact, that might explain why my encounter with the waxwings was only fleeting. Rather than pause and enjoy the first-time sighting for longer than a moment, I raced the hundred feet down the street and pulled into my garage in order to retrieve my camera inside. With the Canon strapped around my neck, I could still see the flock from my open door.
But as I approached on foot, one by one the birds started flying away. Still fifty feet away, I snapped one shot of the two remaining travelers just in case it'd be my only chance. Alas, it was, as those last two waxwings quickly joined their group.
For days after, I slowed down at that tree on my daily drives past it. Sunroof open, I peered into the leafy tree next to it, thinking maybe there was some temptingly juicy fruit that would satisfy the visitors. But there were only flower buds, hardly a diet for a regal group of migratory birds.
While I've got my dark, grainy shot as a bookmark for my brain's fading visual memory, I've got an additional recollection that's impossible to hold in the hand. It's the sound I'd hear the only time I'd come close to a flock of cedar waxwings in my home state. Piercing like a high-pitched whistle, long and uninterrupted, one bird's vocalization lead into another's, in a continuous note, rallying any of us listening.
I've seen cedar waxwings only once before, near my sister-in-law's home in Ventura County near Los Angeles. There might have been two dozen of them gathered high in some trees in that tightly manicured neighborhood. Even when I was more than twenty feet below them, my camouflaged presence so close to their perch's leafy canopy scared them away. Nevertheless they kept returning to the same couple of trees which allowed me to get a few photographs over the course of a weekend.
I wasn't quite that lucky with last week's sighting though. As I drove along my street, I noticed the group of birds in a palo verde tree. Since the tree hadn't burst into its spring blooms yet, the eight or nine individual birds clearly stood out against the spindly branches. And even better, my sunroof was open, affording me a clear overhead view of these gorgeous birds.
Cedar waxwings are indeed common visitors to Arizona, but their stays seem to be seasonal, mostly in the winter. As I've observed, they gather and travel in large flocks, and feed on berries. Since trees are only starting to bloom in my part of Phoenix, I can't imagine there are many fruits to feast on.
In fact, that might explain why my encounter with the waxwings was only fleeting. Rather than pause and enjoy the first-time sighting for longer than a moment, I raced the hundred feet down the street and pulled into my garage in order to retrieve my camera inside. With the Canon strapped around my neck, I could still see the flock from my open door.
But as I approached on foot, one by one the birds started flying away. Still fifty feet away, I snapped one shot of the two remaining travelers just in case it'd be my only chance. Alas, it was, as those last two waxwings quickly joined their group.
For days after, I slowed down at that tree on my daily drives past it. Sunroof open, I peered into the leafy tree next to it, thinking maybe there was some temptingly juicy fruit that would satisfy the visitors. But there were only flower buds, hardly a diet for a regal group of migratory birds.
While I've got my dark, grainy shot as a bookmark for my brain's fading visual memory, I've got an additional recollection that's impossible to hold in the hand. It's the sound I'd hear the only time I'd come close to a flock of cedar waxwings in my home state. Piercing like a high-pitched whistle, long and uninterrupted, one bird's vocalization lead into another's, in a continuous note, rallying any of us listening.
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| My single capture of two of the cedar waxwings on my Phoenix street. |
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| Cedar waxwings in Simi Valley, Ventura County, April 2017. |
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