A savannah sparrow flew low over the prairie and landed on a lichen-splashed split rail fence by the old sheep dip trough along Redoubt Road. He paused a moment as if to gain composure, then lifted his head toward the sky and emitted a short series of thin reedy notes that floated over the plain.
Sit-sit-sit-zee-aaay, sit-sit-sit-zee-aaay; the faint notes, not so much a song as a wispy call, were perfectly pitched to linger among the slender stems of grass, announcing his arrival.
Four times he offered the call. First, facing south toward Pickett's Lane; then, moving counterclockwise on his perch, east past the knoll toward Griffin Bay; then north toward the old Douglas fir where the great horned owl lives; and finally, west toward the place where the fat red fox dozed in a patch of blue camas. Upon completing his refrain, the tiny songster dropped out of sight into the fescue.
Moments later, he reappeared with a delicate partner. The pair fluttered and tumbled together in the breeze, rising and falling to the rhythm of spring, then floated down into the golden grass where later a tiny nest would hold their promise for another songbird spring.
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It is early April and the seasonal shift of birds is underway. San Juan Island's winter resident short-eared owls, northern shrikes and western meadowlarks, among others, have been leaving for their nesting grounds, and migrating breeders are arriving or passing through for points farther north. Spring birding is here. One of my first priorities - after seeing the rufous hummingbirds safely back at my feeders - is to stop by American Camp to find savannah sparrows (Passerculus sandwichensis). They are returning from wintering along the west coast of the U.S. to Mexico and possibly farther southward to Central America. The lithe, streaky-brown songbird with the yellow lores is a common species throughout the nation. Its name - one would expect - relates to its presence on the plain, but actually reflects the Old World sparrow's early occurrence in Savannah, Georgia in 1811.
What a sweet, unassuming bird. Its call is as soft as the gentle spring breeze that carries its notes above the grass. The savannah's small stature - only about six inches in length with a wingspan of less than nine inches - speaks to its inconspicuous presence on the plain. It perches on drift, atop glacial erratics and beside split rail fences, but mostly sings from the grass. The bird's shyness protects its vulnerability as a ground nester from larger birds and red foxes - prime predators on the island.
Early ornithologist William L. Dawson described the humble presence of savannah sparrows in Birds of Washington (1909) as: "... a mere detached bit of brown earth done up in dried grasses; a feathered commonplace which the landscape will swallow up the instant you take your eyes off it." Dawson likened the odds of finding a savannah in the grass to spying a needle in a haystack. I agree. Thus, I always highly value my early looks at the songsters knowing that once nesting begins those sustained visual encounters will likely diminish.
After breeding season here, the savannahs are among the last of the migrants to leave in the fall. The species ranges into Canada and Alaska and - come late September and early October - large flocks of the engaging birds pass through the islands and, I suspect, pick up some of our savannahs on their way south. I have seen loose flocks numbering several hundred sparrows stopping over at the dunes off Pickett's Lane and along the back beach foraging on large stands of thistle and resting- sometimes for days - before continuing their journeys. American Camp has great value to the birds in many ways.
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I smiled upon sighting that first male savannah sparrow this spring by the Redoubt. I saw an exuberance in the passerine's presence - singing his heart out for a female from atop an elderberry bush. I knew - once coupled - he would play an integral role in raising the three to five nestlings likely to be tucked in a woven-grass womb on the park's prairie. His return meant the cycle of the savannah's generational lives (one of eight sparrow species common in the San Juans) continues here.
The savannah's appearance also signals the return of dozens of other species - the swallows, warblers, flycatchers, vireos, solitaires, thrushes and more that will raise offspring here through summer. The wild places on San Juan Island are a gift to them all.
So, here's to the early arrival of the savannahs. Their song will remain with me long after spring. The faint, uncomplicated melody does wonders for my heart. I highly recommend sitting a spell and watching and listening for your favorite, too.
"Welcome home, little ground bird! It is great to have you back."
Susan Vernon is the author of RAINSHADOW WORLD - A Naturalist's Year in the San Juan Islands and SITTING STILL WITH TWILIGHT OWLS - exploring the web of life on San Juan Island.