AUGUST DOLDRUMS -- THE DOG DAYS OF SUMMER

Iπve always liked the expression, the Dog Days, to describe this particular time of the year. Dog Days are a term meaning the doldrums of mid-summer, July to early September, where in most parts of the country the weather is hot and sultry and everywhere energies are low. For Bay Area birders, not much is going on unless you frequent the wetlands and catch the legions of shore birds returning ≠ or passing through ≠ from their northern breeding grounds.

Dies caniculares, later translated as Dog Days, is what the ancient Romans called this season. The term alludes to the summer period when Sirius, the dog star in the constellation Orion, rises and sets with the sun. Observing that Sirius is the brightest star in the northern skies, they believed it emitted heat and as the traveling companion of the sun, it added to the sunπs heat.

I thought about Sirius during the last part of July as we suffered from the endless heat. Instead of being spared by the return of the coastal fog after a few days, the heat persisted for almost two weeks. Birds appeared to take the unusual heat in their stride but when I filled and refilled my birdbaths they tumbled out of the trees to bath and drink.

Retreating to Wildcat Canyon in the evening for relief, I was soothed and heartened by the lovely song of the Swainsonπs thrush and refreshed by its single call note that always sounds to me like a big, round droplet of water.

Only the Swainsonπs Thrush continues to sing into early August. Being one of the last birds to begin sing in spring, it persists the longest. Except for a brief burst of song from the resident Bewickπs Wren, birds are falling silent. With parental responsibilities past, resident birds and a few migrants have turned to the next activity of the year which requires a new expenditure of energy -- the annual molt. Every feather must be shed and replaced in a precise sequence. The long-distance migrants like the swallows wait until they reach their wintering grounds in South America before beginning their molt.

In this quiet month of August when the pattern of fog and sun describes the Bay Area weather, I often wake up to a wall of mist where the only sound is of heavy drops falling off trees and the eaves. I imagine that hawks and swallows have to wait in their damp roosts for the vapors to thin and lift before they can begin their hunting day. Other mornings, the fog is dry and higher and a strong, fresh wind blows through the trees. My favorite mornings are when the fog pulls back early from the hill, revealing trees one by one. The new sun sparkles in the droplets strung along the strands of the orb weaversπ webs. The birds appear invigorated by the early sun and sometimes even indulge in a brief song.

The California Towhees, the most parochial of all birds who rarely venture far from the garden, look disheveled with a mixture of old and new feathers. When sweeping, I often find their shed feathers, along with gray Mourning Dove feathers and the blue ones from the two local jays, the Shrub Jay and the Stellarπs jay. Downy feathers tipped with blue, shed by the young Scrub Jays, float up ahead of my broom.

By the end of August most of the summer residents like the Swainsonπs Thrush, Black-headed Grosbeaks and most flycathers are departing. With a month remaining before the arrival of the first Golden-crowned Sparrows and the other winter residents, the year-round birds have the place to themselves. In our temperate climate, almost half of our birds are year-round residents compared to the parts of the country with truly cold winters where less than 20 percent overwinter.

I often walk up the hill to my favorite birding place at the edge of Tilden Park where the slope is thinly shaded by an old grove of Monterey Pines. The snags furnish nesting sites in the spring for a variety of cavity nesters. Instead of being mostly in pairs, Dark-eyed Juncos have now gathered in flocks. Feeding on the ground, they fly up into the lower branches of the trees at my approach, displaying their white tail feathers. High in the trees, Pygmy Nuthatches, who maintain a group cohesiveness in every season, converse in their high, sweet voices

Signs of fall are everywhere ≠ in the lengthening shadows, in the song of tree crickets after dark, in the sunsets where cirrus clouds hold the sunset colors even as the sky darkens.

Next month, beginning in mid-September, I will begin listening for the sweet-sad song of the Golden-crowned Sparrows. With their arrival from the north, a new bird year begins.

Phila Rogers