The Sound of Wing Beats

While disparate people may march to the beat of different drummers, disparate birds’ wings beat to different sounds. Over the years I have observed that the wing noise made by birds are distinctly different. So I have recently classified the various sounds into five levels: choppers, whistlers, flappers, flutterers, and whisperers.

The choppers—like noisy little helicopters—are the loudest wing beaters. Geese are real choppers. Their big wings steadily beat the air so loudly that I can hear them when they fly overhead, unless they are flying high. Most of the time, however, the incessant honking of Canada geese does a good job of masking wing sounds.

The whistlers are mourning doves. They’re not as loud as the choppers but they certainly grab your attention. For several years I thought doves were calling out as they flew, but then I came to realize that the sound is the tips of their wings shedding little musical vortices.

The flappers are medium-size birds like cardinals and woodpeckers. They are not the most graceful fliers. They furiously beat the air with their wings, creating a flailing sound that resembles a jazz drummer rapidly tapping with a rubber twig on partially-inflated balloons.

The flutterers are small birds like titmice, chickadees, and phoebes. They gracefully, quickly, and quietly zoom about the yard. I can hear their wings only when they are within a dozen feet of me, and only then if no insects are whining or breezes wafting. Their flight is acrobatic and sure. I marvel as I watch them land on a tree branch or the edge of the feeder, with pinpoint accuracy. In contrast, the whistling dove can be heard a hundred feet off. I cross my fingers as it comes clumsily in for a landing on the feeder, hoping that it won’t miss and tumble towards the ground.

The stealth fliers I call the whisperers. Owl flight is virtually silent, so I read; but they’re so shy that I’ve never gotten close enough to verify that. But I can testify to the whispering flight of whip-poor-wills. I once sat in the outdoor tub on a black, hushed night, watching a whip-poor-will fly sorties from a stump hardly 20 feet away from me. The bird repeatedly flew up, grabbed a bug, and circled back to the stump. My eyes could barely make out the bird’s inky form. My ears heard absolutely nothing.