It’s mid-September, and you can feel it in the air. The mornings are cooler, the days a little shorter, and the sky seems to carry a restless energy. For many of our feathered neighbors, the time has come to move on. The Osprey, who just weeks ago hovered over the Narrow River with fish in their talons, are now headed toward Florida and the Caribbean. The Tree Swallows, whose dazzling murmurations painted the evening sky all summer long, are already streaming south. Even the tiny Ruby-throated Hummingbirds, wings beating 50 times a second, have launched themselves on an astonishing journey across the Gulf of Mexico to Central America.
And they are not alone. One by one, the summer chorus has fallen quiet:
- Warblers in every shade of yellow and blue.
- Orioles flashing orange like embers in the trees.
- Tanagers, scarlet as a summer sunset.
- Flycatchers perched on wires and fences.
- Bobolinks, who will travel all the way to South America.
- Shorebirds like Yellowlegs, Sandpipers, and Dowitchers, already gone from our mudflats.
- Even the graceful herons and egrets drift south, trading Narragansett Bay for warmer marshes.
And then there are the undecided ones, like the Belted Kingfisher. Some leave, following the osprey and swallows toward warmer waters. Others stick it out along our tidal rivers and bays, their rattling cries echoing across the still, cold air of January. With them, migration isn’t a simple matter of instinct—it’s a wager with the ice.
They’ve left us, or lingered, and their choices are as much a part of the season as the turning leaves.
But Rhode Island is never empty. Our winters are kept alive by the year-round residents—those hardy souls who endure the cold and remind us that beauty isn’t seasonal. The Northern Cardinal, glowing red against bare branches. The bold Blue Jay, announcing his presence to anyone within earshot. The ever-cheerful Black-capped Chickadee, a bird that seems to laugh at the frost. Woodpeckers drum on tree trunks all winter: Downy, Hairy, Red-bellied, and even the great Pileated. Mourning Doves, Song Sparrows, Mockingbirds, and Goldfinches (dressed in winter olive instead of gold) fill the hedgerows. Along the coast, the gulls wheel and cry, as constant as the tide.
And then, of course, there are the predators—the sentinels of the season. The Red-tailed Hawk circling above open fields. The swift Cooper’s Hawk diving into a flock at the feeder. The ghostly Northern Harrier, skimming low over the marsh with wings held in a V. The Sharp-shinned Hawk, darting through woodlots with surgical precision. Falcons too: the relentless Peregrine, a master of speed; the Merlin, fierce and fast in its own right. Owls keep their secret watch—Great Horned, Barred, and the elusive Short-eared, hunting silently across the grasslands. And high above, with wings broad and regal, the Bald Eagle—no longer a rarity, but a year-round presence once again on Rhode Island’s shores and rivers.
Overhead, the clever Fish Crows and American Crows trade their caws, while the deeper croak of a Raven sometimes rolls across the sky—reminding us that intelligence and mischief are alive in winter too.
A Photographer’s Reflection
As a photographer, this turning of the season changes the way I see. In summer, I chase the fleeting color of migrants—the flash of an oriole, the sparkle of a hummingbird, the sky-filling clouds of swallows. But in winter, I learn a different rhythm. The birds that remain demand patience, quiet, and intimacy. A chickadee landing on a frosted branch, a cardinal glowing against the snow, the sudden thunder of wings as turkeys lift from a field—it’s less spectacle and more conversation.
And then there are the raptors and owls. Photographing a Red-tailed Hawk perched against a steel-gray sky, a Bald Eagle soaring over Narragansett Bay, or hearing the deep hoot of a Great Horned Owl in the dusk, is to feel both humbled and alive.
But there is one vision I still dream of: the Snowy Owl. Every few winters, they drift down from the Arctic, white against the dunes and breakwaters, a living embodiment of wildness. They are, for me, the photograph not yet taken—the bucket-list image that keeps me watching the horizon when the wind bites and the beaches are empty.
One day, I tell myself, the Snowy will appear. Until then, I’ll wait, camera ready, listening for the silence that comes just before a dream takes flight.
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