An unseasonably warm Saturday afternoon recently found me out and about, enjoying the feel of the sun on my skin and the almost balmy breeze against my face. I found a bench facing the ocean and sat in a contemplative mood, not paying particular attention to anything but the spring-like air.
The musical, tinkling calls that suddenly dropped out of the sky snapped me to attention. I looked up and observed what appeared to be leaves swirling and weaving in the wind. The small wave of birds came rolling in several feet over the water, flashing hues of brown, tan, black and white. The birds quickly disappeared behind a large grassy knoll, but not before I was able to identify them as snow buntings.
I hurried carefully up the path, hoping to see where they had landed, but they seemed to have disappeared – likely startled by the many people out enjoying the warm day.
Snow buntings are one of my favorite fall and winter visitors. These amazingly hardy sparrows nest in rocky crevices in the high Arctic, the males returning there to claim prime nesting sites in April, when snow still covers the ground and temperatures are still well below zero. Females arrive up to a month later, after the snow has begun to melt. Still, the climate can be harsh; to combat these conditions, males will often feed their mates during incubation and for a short time during the brooding period.
During the breeding season, males sport a gorgeous plumage; their backs and middle tail feathers are black, their wings are black with white patches, and the rest of their bodies are as brilliantly white as new-fallen snow. Females’ wings and tails are similar, but the rest of their bodies are streaked with a warm chestnut or rufous color; a buff-colored band across the chest is often visible.
I was intrigued to read about their territorial and mate-advertisement behavior, and delighted with the mental picture this produced.
Imagine standing in the middle of the tundra. You can see for miles in all directions; around you, male buntings launch themselves almost straight up 15 feet into the air. At this height, they begin singing as they glide down on wings held in an upward angle, alighting on a small tussock or boulder as they continue singing with wings spread.
This is one image I’d like to impress upon those who think the Arctic is a “barren wasteland.”
During the non-breeding season, the male molts into subtler but no less beautiful plumage. The startling white chest becomes dusted with light chestnut, the back and wings turn a warm buff and brown, a black cap appears on the head, and a deep chestnut auricular patch appears. Females are similarly patterned at this time of the year, although the amount of white on their wings is less than the males.
Snow buntings are a common sight in Maine during the non-breeding season. Their wintering range extends across the upper tier of the United States, as well as far southern Canada. They range across open grasslands, fields, beaches, and along roadsides, foraging on weed and grass seeds. They sometimes form large flocks which can include other winter visitors such as the Lapland longspur.
Part of the joy of birding are these distinctive sightings that help to lighten the cold season’s gloom.