10,000 Birds

A small global big day

David T — Fri, 23 Oct 2026 15:59:00 +0000

I like islands, but they have one drawback if you like birds: the smaller they are, the fewer species of birds they have. I knew as soon as I signed up to be a member of the 10000 Birds team for the Global Big Day (10 October) that I wouldn’t be recording lots of birds because I would be on the Balearic island of Menorca in the Mediterranean Sea. However, though my score wouldn’t be high…

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An Accidental Accidental

a Guest — Fri, 23 Oct 2026 11:00:00 +0000

By Rebekah Doyle Rebekah is a school-based physical therapist in Tucson who enjoys exploring by foot, pedal, and paddle. She is a contributor to Arizona Spotlight on Arizona Public Media. More of her writing can be found at rebekahdoyle.com Birding was the last thing on our minds on a beautiful mid-October morning when my husband, Brad, and I first went mountain biking at Grindstone Lake near Ruidoso, New Mexico. We commented briefly about the commotion of coots in a cove below—but that was all. We were in South Central New Mexico to bike and enjoy the cool fall weather after a long Sonoran Desert summer in Tucson, Arizona. New to the trail system and rather rusty riding rocks, I was especially focused on remaining on my bike and took in the scenery less than usual. After the ride we headed to a camp on a rolling juniper mesa near Lincoln, an area known for Billy the Kid and, according to our riding app, mountain biking. The next day I wished I was on a horse and not my bike after rattling down horseshoe-pitted trails and fording the cold Rio Bonito. I did not think about Grindstone Lake until later that evening at camp, when Brad, idly checking eBird observations nearby, exclaimed, “You’ve got to be kidding me—there’s a South Polar Skua at Grindstone Lake!” I toggled back through mental snapshots from the Grindstone trails. Is it possible there among the mallards and coots was a skua? Is it possible I saw a skua—a SKUA!—lounging on the lake and dismissed it as a gull?! It was all rather distressing how completely I had tuned out nature while riding. Even more distressing, the skua had not been listed on eBird for the past several days. Had it finally departed for distant Antarctica? Rather than berating ourselves further, we resolved to return to Grindstone Lake the next morning. It was another beautiful day at the lake, the autumn air cool, the water calm, the mountain sun strong. The ponderosa pines and Gambel oaks covering the hillsides and the vacation homes along the ridges seemed a world away from the volcanic slopes of Cape Crozier, Antarctica, where the skua breeds during the austral summer. The picnickers, dog walkers, and children playing in the sand seemed more than a world away from a skua’s life on the open sea, snatching fish from ocean swells (or stealing them from unsuspecting shearwaters and terns). Even more than most skuas, South Polar Skuas traverse vast stretches of ocean, ranging as far north as the North Atlantic and the Bering Sea during the boreal summer. I approached the lake with binoculars in hand, mentally preparing myself for mallards. But there it was, a South Polar Skua, swimming steadily across the middle. After standing briefly on one of a cluster of small floating platforms that house solar panels near the dam, the skua abruptly rose into the air, its dark brown wings flashing a distinctive white band at the base of the primaries. Is it finally leaving, I wondered? But after a brief flight around the lake, perhaps testing its wings, the skua returned. Cape Crozier, apparently, was not top of mind this morning. Back in the water, the skua bathed vigorously with a rocking motion evocative of a 90’s dance move. After dousing its back and wings thoroughly, the skua hopped onto the platform to shake itself dry and bask in the sun. An angler asked what I was looking for and I told him about the skua. He glanced towards the bird and returned to fishing, but not before asking if I had seen any eagles lately. The skua’s arrival on August 16, 2026, was a first state record and South Polar Skua is now an accidental species on the New Mexico bird list. Other inland sightings of the species are also exceedingly rare and include a one-day appearance in North Dakota in 1989 and another in Oklahoma for nearly a week in 2013. It is hard to imagine what perfect storm of weather, internal navigational glitches, and plain bad luck brought this particular bird to this particular lake. As in any mystery in which a stranger comes to town, equally mysterious is why they stay. By the time I saw the skua it had spent two months at Grindstone Lake. Was it recovering from the journey? An accident or illness perhaps? Is it unsure where to go? Or has the skua found Grindstone to be familiar enough to merit an extended stay after a long, unintended detour? Grindstone Lake is stocked with trout. The anglers, young and old, stake their territories along the shoreline like Adélie penguins on the ice-free slopes of Cape Crozier at the edge of the Ross Ice Shelf. Does the platform near the dam evoke standing on floating sea ice? Is Grindstone Lake a gilded cage? Or is the skua resting just long enough to recover its strength before continuing south? Will it decide to over-winter? South Polar Skuas can live for several decades, some even longer. Grindstone Lake never freezes completely and the trout are active year-round—and tasty. A while later, as Brad took photos through the scope and we watched the skua floating beside the solar platform, another angler nearby mentioned that his Biology class at the local community college spent a couple of hours observing and talking about the bird back in August when it first came to town. I mentioned I saw some online posts by birders who had made 500 or 1,000-mile trips to the lake. The undergrad commented that he had not seen many birders crowding the shoreline. When it was time to leave, I took a last look knowing I would probably never see a South Polar Skua again. Of course, all birds deserve our attention. Yet everything about this experience of accidentally encountering an accidental felt special. Birds connect us to geography, to others, and even other parts of ourselves. Maybe I have read...

Species Spotlight: Black-crowned Night Heron

Kai Pflug — Fri, 23 Oct 2026 11:00:00 +0000

The Black-crowned Night Heron is the world’s most widespread heron (source: HBW). Unsurprisingly, it is a bird that inspires both scientific questions and nicknames. One study found that 70% of the nestlings examined were male, though the sample was small. The researchers found no significant relationship between brood sex ratio and nest-site selection, breeding time, brood size, or nestling body condition. So they suggest genetic mechanisms—or some other as-yet-unknown factor—may be at work. And, in the grand tradition of scientific conclusions, they call for further research (Study). I was struck by the paper’s publication date: June 2026. It was written by researchers from Iran’s northern Mazandaran Province. Somehow, life and research go on. The species also has a more practical connection to another bird. Common Terns sometimes ask me how to keep Black-crowned Night Herons from preying on their chicks after dark. One study found that solar-powered lights reduced heron visits sixfold and also reduced egg and chick losses (Study). There is a less practical, but more memorable, piece of heron research: Baillie Weiderick’s master’s thesis, “Guano Rain and Growing Pain: Co-nesting Dynamics of Double-crested Cormorants and Black-crowned Night-herons at Tommy Thompson Park.” The title deserves a special award for weirdness. The thesis reports a strong positive relationship between cormorant and night-heron population growth. (Thesis) And a detail from ornithological history, in case you were waiting for one: Japan’s first bird-banding survey involved placing bands on 100 juvenile Black-crowned Night Herons at Haneda, Tokyo, on 30 June 1924. (Article) The heron’s night-time habits may help explain why it has become such a familiar character online, at least in China. A Chinese meme calls it yè shifu, roughly “Night Master.” With its hunched posture and exhausted expression, it can look like a worker clocking off after a punishing night shift—and already dreading the next one. That image feels familiar to me. As a student, I worked night shifts at a plastics compounding company for a few weeks, arriving around 9 or 10 p.m. and leaving at 6 a.m. I doubt I looked particularly fresh after each shift. And the nickname has some basis in the bird’s habits: Black-crowned Night Herons often feed from evening to early morning, then spend much of the day hunched among branches. Another meme calls the bird the “Chinese native-country penguin” (zhonghuá tiányuán qié). With its neck tucked in, dark back and pale belly, the heron can look a little like a penguin. The second part of the joke refers to a 2019 incident at a Japanese zoo. A Black-crowned Night Heron turned up among the penguins, apparently hoping to get some fish. The keepers spotted it, but the bird stayed on and kept treating the zoo as its own dining area. Naturally, internet fame followed. Both nicknames seem affectionate to me. One turns the heron into a familiar figure: the tired worker who has put in a long night and still has to carry on. The other makes it a likeable opportunist, slipping into the penguin enclosure and helping itself to the fish. I can identify with both.

Ospreys of Northeast Pennsylvania: Lackawanna State Park

a Guest — Fri, 23 Oct 2026 11:00:00 +0000

By Samantha Meheltz Samantha is a young birder in Northeastern Pennsylvania. She took a huge interest in birds when she was 7 years old and stumbled into her neighbor’s yard, where they had many bird feeders! She loves and appreciates all birds, especially the Osprey and the Gray Catbird. One of my favorite places to go see Ospreys (Pandion haliaetus) in Northeastern Pennsylvania is the Lackawanna State Park, especially during nesting season, when you can see the males flying over the lake for hours on end. Bullhead Bay Boat Launch, from what I’ve observed, is the most popular area on the lake to see and hear them. Standing right on the dock is where I saw my first Osprey. After that, I couldn’t stop seeing them and focusing on their high-pitched whistling calls. Lackawanna State Park is known mostly for camping, kayaking, and fishing, but I see it as the best place for Ospreys and other beautiful water birds. I’ve spent many hours at Bullhead Bay Boat Launch, and my time has proven that seeing Ospreys across the park will most likely begin with your ears instead of your eyes. Ospreys are large apex predators with a 6-foot wingspan, and they have a very high-pitched, loud whistle call that is rhythmic and sharp. Hearing these calls and having a very visible area of the lake allows you to see these calls with their actual behaviors: either perched calling out to their mate at the nest, or soaring above the lake, about to do their iconic M-shaped dive for food. Ospreys are different from your average birds of prey, which hunt small mammals, reptiles, and small birds. They have a diet that consists of 99% fish. When I saw them dive and grab a fish so accurately, I was confused about how they saw them through the murky water. I learned they have polarized vision that cuts down surface glare, the same concept as a fisherman’s glasses. Furthermore, their brains instantly calculate the way water bends, so they don’t dive where the fish looks like it is; they instinctively dive where the fish actually is, which makes their catch perfect almost every time. Though I have witnessed some of them come up soaking wet with no dinner! Something that first amazed me when I researched Ospreys was the photos I saw of their M-shaped dive. They can reach up to 40 miles per hour by folding their wings tightly along their sides and pinning them at the wrist joints to reduce wind resistance. At the absolute last second, before completely slamming themselves into the water, they swing their legs forward out past their heads. Their dive is much different than any other bird of prey; they completely submerge themselves into the water and have the strength to fly out even with a struggling, heavy fish in their hands. Over the years of watching Ospreys, I’ve found that recently I’ve seen tons more than I used to! At the state park, I can usually see 2–4 over the water or perched up in just one single area! This is because Ospreys were officially declared extirpated (completely gone from the state) by 1979. The water in Pennsylvania was toxic because of a chemical called DDT, which was used in agriculture and built up inside fish. Because ospreys eat 99% fish, DDT disrupted their calcium production, weakening their eggs and causing them to break away as parents incubated them. Fortunately, the Game Commission introduced a huge effort to fix this. 265 baby Ospreys were transported from places like the Chesapeake Bay and New Jersey and placed into man-made towers. Lackawanna State Park has also played a huge role in keeping these birds safe and the population stable by using man-made nesting platforms, strict water and shoreline protections, and creating “no-wake” hunting zones, basically making an Osprey sanctuary. By 2017, the Osprey population in Pennsylvania was higher than it ever was! Learning this made me really appreciate Ospreys and the park more than I already did. What makes this park a little more special to me is how these Ospreys coexist with the kayakers, fishers, and campers. I’ve noticed that the birds do not mind the company; it is not rare to see someone out on a boat fishing and an Osprey hovering a few hundred yards away. In my own experience, I have seen Ospreys flying right above me and looking directly at me when I make a little too much noise, move around, or am just watching them! Seeing how comfortable these Ospreys are has made me appreciate the work that goes into protecting them even more. The effort Lackawanna State Park has made and continues to make for these birds is remarkable, and thanks to them, I can happily watch my favorite bird!

Birds with terrible opinions

Kai Pflug — Thu, 22 Oct 2026 11:00:00 +0000

Birds—we like them. Mostly. But every family has that one relative whose opinions make you quietly reconsider inviting them to dinner. Birds are no different. Here are a few species whose views are, frankly, indefensible. Common Cuckoo: “Family planning is for others to worry about”. European Starling: “Native species are overrated.” Hoatzin: “Hygiene? What hygiene? We grew up without it and turned out well enough” Herring Gull: “It shouldn’t be called stealing but rather wealth distribution” Northern Mockingbird: “Plagiarism should win awards, not be called a crime” Black Kite: “Waste management has become far too efficient” Turkey Vulture: “Accident prevention is way overrated” Red-billed Oxpecker: “Every problem deserves a follow-up wound” Photo: Red-billed Oxpecker, Mhkuze, Nov 2018

Demotivational Posters for Birds (LIII)

Kai Pflug — Thu, 22 Oct 2026 11:00:00 +0000

Following extensive stakeholder consultation, we have identified four birds whose careers could benefit from constructive negativity.

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A Selection of East African Sunbirds

Faraaz Abdool — Wed, 21 Oct 2026 17:00:00 +0000

The biweekly reminder on my phone “10,000 Birds” generally equates to a routine (but much appreciated) conundrum of what can be shared that is interesting enough, bird-related, and politically appropriate. The last of those, of course, is applicable not because of what can be considered controversial, but what can get visas revoked. I’m trying my best to avoid speaking of how we’re living in a rapidly expanding police state and that fascism is only capitalism that’s becoming desperate to hold on to power. Oh, dear reader, see how easily I fall victim to this? I really should see a shrink about this condition. Anyway, the escape from human societal collapse almost always involves birds, for which I’m grateful. I’m also immensely grateful for my life as a bird guide — you can learn about my journey (as well as David’s and Rolf’s) here — which has allowed me to share space and time with species I had never even known about. Having to pen another article for this blog, I began leafing through my library which has now grown to unwieldy proportions. Checking some of my previous posts, I noted a strong preference for LBJ’s — I seem to enjoy sharing selections of small, nondescript birds. In light of that, I considered sharing some images from a more vividly plumaged family, and as it turns out, I had quite a few frames with sunbirds in them. In my annual pilgrimages to East Africa, the mecca (and birthplace) of safari, I’ve photographed 21 of approximately 60 species of sunbirds that can be found in the region. Some, like Blue-throated Brown Sunbird, I’ve seen but didn’t manage a photo. There have been other sightings of brownish, olive, sleek sunbirds with decurved bills that were too fleeting for me to identify. Typically, only adult males in breeding plumage show the fantastical iridescent plumage the family is known for. Adult females and juvenile birds are notoriously difficult to identify most times, especially within species groups that are closely related. Sharing 21 of 60 may not seem like much, but I’m proud of it nevertheless — I’ve only been to Kenya, Tanzania, and Uganda, and most of these have been general, casual safaris during which I was birding with my usual nonchalance. It should also be noted that the total number here also includes vagrant, migratory species. So maybe I’m doing better than I give myself credit for? As I prepared this selection, I contemplated which was the best way to share. Alphabetical? My usual go-to is taxonomic order, where the relations across species can often be easily visually appreciated. And so, here I present a cross-section of members of the mostly nectarivorous Nectariniidae family. The Grey-headed Sunbird doesn’t look much like a sunbird at all, and if it wasn’t for our local guide I’m certain this would’ve gone unnoticed. This bird has a fairly wide distribution across the Congo basin; it surely is much more common than eBird suggests. I’ve seen Eastern Violet-backed Sunbird a couple of times, the namesake violet is not visible here as this is firstly the front of the bird, and secondly it’s likely a young female so therefore didn’t have a violet back at all. It did have a back, though. The Collared Sunbird is another of the short-billed, chunky sunbirds. As many of these sturdier-billed birds are, they consume a lot of insects and small arthropods in addition to small fruit and nectar. We’re now entering the world of the distinctively curve-billed sunbirds with the Green-headed Sunbird, seen here hovering as their New World equivalents do. Another forest denizen of the Congo basin (also extending to West Africa) is the Green-throated Sunbird, extreme western Uganda is the only area where I’ve crossed paths with it. Most people visit Bwindi Impenetrable Forest for Mountain Gorillas, but the birding isn’t bad at all. I always struggle to photograph Amethyst Sunbirds as whenever they give me a decent head turn, their iridescent amethyst throat and greenish-blue crown shift to a coffee-infused hue I actually quite like. I’m so conflicted. Pictured here is a male piercing the base of a flower for nectar without shouldering the responsibility of pollination. As most birds tinged with any degree of red do, the sight of a Scarlet-chested Sunbird elicits widespread gasps. Extremely similar to the previous species is Hunter’s Sunbird, adult males separated by throat colour. Female Hunter’s Sunbirds are slightly lighter brown below than females of the previous species. Good luck. Although to be fair there is little overlap in habitat preference for these two species, so it’s usually one or the other, depending on where you are. This very distant male was photographed on our first safari in Kenya seven years ago. The excessively streamlined Purple-breasted Sunbird is endemic to the Albertine Rift which straddles Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Pictured here is a moulting male. Confined to the highlands of East Africa is the Tacazze Sunbird, its name is derived from the ancient Ethiopian Ge’ez language. We can argue about gold, copper, and bronze all day, but the Bronze Sunbird certainly has no silver. One of the most distinctive sunbirds for its languid profile and golden wings, both male and female Golden-winged Sunbirds have the namesake field mark. Like the previously mentioned trio of long-tailed sunbirds, this species is also considered a highland sunbird, rarely (if ever) found below 1,800m above sea level. Pictured here is a male, also with a golden-edged tail, seemingly contemplating his choices. The group of double-collared sunbirds comprises some frustratingly similar species, separated very often by merit of location, habitat, and vocalisation. Try measuring the width of that breast-band, better yet the violet border is definitively wider than that of another species seen 30m up in the canopy. And yes, there is some range overlap. Pictured here is a Northern Double-collared Sunbird. Steel-blue versus violet uppertail-coverts seems to be the key to differentiating an Eastern Double-collared Sunbird from the previous species. As...

Caracara Eggs – Based on a True Story

Erika Zambello — Wed, 21 Oct 2026 15:20:38 +0000

Once upon a time eggs went missing along Lake Okeechobee the liquid heart of Florida shining azure in the Sunshine State. From across the country they came amateur oologists nidologists or just “eggers” – the collectors of wild eggs to fill curiosity cabinets with empty shells. Next Crested Caracara generation disappearing into burlap bags; rare birds sliding into extinction. Then: heroes emerge. To take on the herculean task of saving birds from humanity of saving people from ourselves our grasping, our greed. To the top of the trees they climbed dodging hooked bills of angry parents heave to the lip of stick nests stamping “Property of National Audubon Society” on precious, sunset-hued eggs. A marker, a brand, a gesture of inked care to render surfaces – and eggs – useless for prying poachers. Protected, then. Resilient, now. Learn more about this true story here.