Some say it's the robin. I choose the woodcock.
Each March--even a little before it seems right for them to return--they're suddenly here, ushering in springtime, albeit a little early. Batlike, these early males dance at twilight. In the false dawn before daybreak, they twitter above our three acres of southern Maine. They like the birdy cover out there, which holds both worms and protection from above (we have our watchful hawks and owls). Down below, the feral cats and raccoons do their prowling too, for sure. A shattered low-lying robin's nest in a springtime lilac one year said as much, as did the scattered remains of a March woodcock found another time: first by a predator, and then by my daughter ("Daddy, what's this?"). But every late winter the woodcock appear . . . suddenly, surely. And, let the record show, that we see robins all winter--often in the deep woods near swamps--despite other more popular assumptions . . .
Ironically though, we rarely if ever spot woodcock on our property during the fall flight, even as I hunt them elsewhere across four states. It's as if they prefer this little stop over on their journey north. That works fine for us . . .
Steve Hickoff photo
