Every spring, birders across Maine eagerly await the return of familiar calls and flashes of color: the first eastern phoebe perched on a vehicle; the red-winged blackbird flying over a marsh; warblers arriving in the treetops. Each is a sign of renewal, a hint that winter is loosening its grip.
But what about fall? We easily notice arrivals, but departures often pass unnoticed. Which species quietly head south first? And which linger the longest, signaling that winter is near?
Migration doesn’t happen all at once, it’s a rolling process across species and weeks. Some, like bobolinks and shorebirds, begin heading south as early as July, leaving hayfields and tidal flats while summer remains alive with activity. Others, such as ruby-throated hummingbirds, vanish in late August or early September, leaving empty feeders as their only trace. For me, their absence is often the first sign that fall has arrived.
Then there are the late-season birds, the ones that carry us into November. Yellow-rumped warblers, hardy sparrows and blackbirds hang on as long as the food holds out. Even great blue herons are still spotted through November. Loons and waterfowl gather on lakes until ice forms.
One of the very last to leave, the dark-eyed junco, keeps close to the edges of our yards, as if reluctant to concede to the season. When they finally disappear, their absence feels like a closing door.
These transitions are now tracked with powerful tools at our fingertips: The BirdCast Migration Dashboard uses radar to show in real time how many birds are flying overhead at night. eBird bar charts give a detailed record of when specific species usually depart, drawn from thousands of Maine birders submitting their sightings. The Motus Wildlife Tracking Network, supported locally by Maine Audubon, adds another layer — following individual radio-tagged birds across the continent. And the Bird Migration Explorer connects the dots between Maine birds and their wintering grounds in Central and South America.
Together, these resources give us a clearer picture of when our birds come and go. Yet even with all the data, bird migration remains deeply personal. For some, fall feels real when the phoebes vanish. For others, it’s when the geese stop honking overhead. And for many, the last robin or junco in the yard is the quiet signal that winter has arrived.
Perhaps the secret is to notice both ends of the migration journey — the joy of first arrivals and the bittersweet silence of final departures.
