Day of the Butcherbird: Northern shrike appears at a beach on Long Island Sound

Day of the Butcherbird
A hawk in songbird's clothing

ith a stiff cold wind blowing out of the northwest, Sherwood Island was largely deserted. Even the model airplanes were grounded. The marsh grass waved beneath a sky the color of a blue jay's back. The morning sun had a dazzling brightness, as if polished by the wind. Though the chilly wind dominated, now and then I felt the sun's warmth and thought of summer.

A birding companion and I had come to the park hoping to see something unusual on this blustery late-autumn day. I thought we might see a golden eagle heading south; my friend mentioned white-winged crossbill, a northern finch that very occasionally visits Connecticut. What we eventually found was neither crossbill nor eagle, but a unique bird with characteristics of both.

Starting near the park entrance, we walked east along the reeds and shrubs separating the marsh from the dry fields. I said the park was deserted—of people but not of birds. Squadrons of hooded mergansers zoomed along the marsh's watercourses, eastern meadowlarks sprang out of the grass, and overhead we heard the chacks of red-winged blackbirds flying east to west.

American robins, hundreds of them, streamed almost continuously across the sky, oddly flying north. Two crows heckled a young northern harrier tilting over weedy fields in search of rodents. A lingering great egret hunted small marsh creatures along a muddy bank.

"Shrike on a Winter Tree" by Li Ti We had been birding half an hour, trailing sparrows along the shrubby marsh border, when my friend said he glimpsed "something good" dashing ahead of us. I peered over a wall of reeds and saw a gray and black bird with narrow white wing patches dive for cover in a lone cedar some 75 yards away.

Though it resembled a mockingbird, I suspected something else and found myself exclaiming, "It's a shrike!" The bird moved near the top of the cedar. Through our binoculars, we saw that it was indeed a shrike, but most of it was obscured by foliage, and the light was against us.

We still had to determine whether it was a loggerhead shrike, a southern species, or its slightly larger and very similar relative of colder regions, the northern shrike. As far as we knew, neither species had ever been recorded at Sherwood Island. But to find out which shrike it was, we needed a better look.

A game of hide-and-seek began. My eyes were riveted on the cedar as we approached the shrike, but when we reached the tree, it had vanished. We looked around in disbelief. How had it eluded us?

My greatest fear was that, flying low and out of view, it had turned north, crossing to the other side of the marsh. If the shrike had put the marsh between us and it, even if we could spot it, we'd never be able to make a definitive identification at such a distance.

"Shrike" by Myamoto Musashi We backtracked to where we first flushed the bird and retraced our steps. By the time we reached the cedar again, the wind had whisked away my hopes. Suddenly my friend shouted, "There it is!" Bounding through the air, the shrike landed in a cottonwood just behind the beach. It had remained here the entire time, quietly waiting for us to call off the search.

Giving this wary bird a wide berth, we followed it to a white birch, then back to the marsh edge, where finally we had some fine looks through our binoculars. It was an adult northern shrike, a robin-size bird with a heavy hooked bill, narrow black mask, silvery back, and finely barred underparts. Loggerheads have a smaller bill, fuller mask, darker back, and no barring.

The northern shrike rarely appears in southern New England, arriving only when lack of prey forces it south of its normal boreal range. Although a songbird, it acts like a hawk, feeding in winter on small mammals and birds. Its habit of impaling prey on thorns has earned it the nickname, butcherbird.

I watched the shrike make a foray into the marsh. Hovering like a kestrel, it appeared to be hunting mice. Its usual flight pattern was a series of quick rises and dips. Before landing, it would plunge toward the ground and, at the last possible moment, angle up to its perch. My final glimpse was of it diving into a thicket, perhaps in pursuit of sparrows.

With half the park yet to bird, we moved to the west side. The wind grew more intense, but it did not affect me. I was thinking about northern shrikes and other winged rarities.

Create a link to this site

A message from Robert Winkler

Jeff Brush/Connecticut Post (used with permission)

If you enjoyed this essay, I know you'll enjoy my critically acclaimed book, Going Wild: Adventures with Birds in the Suburban Wilderness (National Geographic), which expands on many of the short pieces I've posted here. Why do I write about birds? Because they represent the wild in all its glory. They're numerous, diverse, intelligent, talkative, and beautiful; their power of flight never ceases to amaze; and they're the most conspicuous class of wild animal—even in the suburb, they're just about everywhere. Whether you're a beginning or advanced birder, a fan of nature writing, a curious suburbanite, or a reader in search of that rare bird known as a good book, Going Wild could very well change how you view your world. So get your copy now, or buy one for your favorite birder or nature lover. Best deal on the Web: brand new, perfect copies $5 each (69% off) at National Geographic Books.

Top