Some birders call this passive sport hawk-watching, and for many it is an annual ritual not to be missed because the pollen laden breezes of autumn push thousands of raptors south for the winter. In some places, like Cape May, New Jersey, or Hazel Bazemore Park near Corpus Christi, Texas, where the birds are concentrated and forced to fly around, rather than cross the water, thousands of hawks will pass overhead in a single day. The pickin’s are usually a bit slimmer in my back yard, but I still have vivid memories of a late September day about a decade ago when a large flock of over two thousand Broad-winged Hawks flew overhead. This feeling of finding something that I will remember for a long time is, I guess, is what drives me out into the yard on mornings when cool fronts and weekends correspond.

But after about an hour, it was clear that this morning was not going to be one of those mornings. I watched the same three Black Vultures cavorting back and forth, and, oh yes, there was a Red-tailed Hawk that kept coming back around just making sure I would notice him. But these were clearly not migrants. To make matters worse, even though there were no birds, something, was blowing in the wind and what ever it was, once I started sneezing I couldn’t stop. My eyes started watering and when I looked heavenward they just seemed to tear-up even more. I have to admit that at that point I was tempted to call the whole thing off and head inside.

But I made it over that sneezing spell and after moving my chair back into the shade, I decided to keep looking. Finally a bird appeared on the horizon—and although it was not a hawk, it was a welcome addition to the morning. At this point almost anything would have been welcome.

From out of nowhere it took form, undulating overhead, the yellow undersides of its wings flashing, or perhaps flickering, as it flew past. The bird was a Yellow-shafted Flicker, and for me this was the first fall migrant of the year. Unlike many small birds that migrate under the cover of darkness, flickers often migrate in plain sight and at low altitudes. They are large birds, about half the size of crows, and are therefore easily watched as they wing their way south, one wing beat at a time. Quite handsome, they sport small black dots on the breast and black bib-shaped spot on the throat.

Watching bird migration is a bit like watching a football game on television with the sound turned off. You supply the play-by-play without the benefit of someone telling you who has the ball, how many yards they achieved and where they went to school. But that is actually where the thrill comes in. There is an immense satisfaction that comes from being an “insider” to the goings on in nature. It is exciting to know that this bird is about on time and that soon others will be right behind it.

Before I finally grew too bleary eyed, I counted only two more flickers. However, over the next couple of weeks I would see many more flickers, slowly undulating southward, moving ahead of the cold weather. In fact, it wouldn’t be long before the woods were full of their familiar screams. They will remain in our woods and yards all winter, and when spring days begin to warm the air and buds begin emerging from the trees, most will return north to nest and raise young.