Yellow-rumped Warblers, none in breeding plumage of course, were abundant, dropping into the tree’s upper story, then slowly descending limb by limb to the edge of the water. Mostly quick drinks, but every now and then one would bathe, all unaware of my close presence as long as my movements were slow. I was hoping a vagrant or late migrant might be attracted to the activity as I had been, but I saw only the occasional House Finches and mockingbirds. One Phainopepla, brown plumage, dull eye, and gape mark all indicating a bird of the year, finally dropped in.
The unexpected Phainopepla was a pleasant surprise, but a bigger one soon appeared. Just as I turned my head and looked downstream, a larger bird came toward me on the wing, fast, and flashed by so close in front of me that, despite the speed of its flight, I had no trouble identifying it--a male American Kestrel. The whole episode lasted about one second. The bush instantly exploded, terrified passerines departing in every direction, but when I realized there was no feather rain, I was sure the little falcon had been unsuccessful in his bid for breakfast.
Immediately I too left the creek, intent on trying to follow the kestrel to verify it had missed its prospective meal. Hurrying out to a small stand of Giant Saguaros thirty yards away where I had seen raptors perched on previous visits to the area, I saw no bird activity anywhere. Typically when a hawk strafes an area, avian activity takes several minutes to resume, all intended victims having fled the area or hunkered under bushes. Sure enough, by the time I returned creekside there was a lot going on again, but not what I had expected.
Now there was a small flock of Phainopeplas in the very top of the mesquite, maybe eight birds total, only two of them the beautiful male “black cardinals,” the rest brown females types, most still sporting prominent gape marks, young birds of the year. With temperatures warming up, though, approaching mid-morning, there were swarms of small insects floating around against the sky just above the tree, and the Phainopeplas had discovered them and were doing their Phainopepla thing.
The aerobatic maneuvers of these silky flycatchers, in flycatching mode, are often breathtaking as they pursue, twist, turn, stall, hover, loop, and roll, often for up to thirty seconds at a time, before dropping back to a high perch. The insects they target are barely visible to the naked human eye, I doubt Phainopeplas even pursue large dragonflies as kites and falcons do, and they appear to be darting through the swarms, consuming several morsels at a time, ingesting them in flight. In fact the targets often seem the same size as the tiny flying insects the dragonflies themselves capture, but the latter typically snatch just one at a time.
As I watch, marvel, and shoot, I see that some Yellow-rumpeds have returned to the mesquite, and one or two even join the Phainopeplas in their aerial pursuits from the upper branches. Sure, warblers eat insects too, and I’ve often seen winter flocks of young Yellow-rumpeds pursue them like this. Warbler flight is more direct than that of the larger birds, and it appears they target just one bug at a time, sweeping through the swarms until they make a strike.
The wing displays of both species are an awesome showcase for the beauty of their wing plumage and the utility of their evolutionary feeding skills. They also present an interesting challenge for modern bird photographers, but it is one the latest advances in digital cameras were designed to tackle. I can think of no better way to spend a winter morning in the desert, celebrating the photographic cliché, “f/8 and be there.” I’m shooting wide open of course, but I’m there.