As I stood there in the faint autumn light, a flock of small gray birds flew up from the unraked leaves before me disappearing into the dusk, and if not for their white tail markings, several minutes might have passed for me to realize they were dark eyed juncos. Dark eyed juncos return every October and then leave in mid-April. I had forgotten them over the summer.

Although autumn began on Sept. 22, for me, the season had not started until the magic of that first sighting in mid-October. A few days later, I saw more of them, flocks in all corners of the yard. Now, they gather beneath the feeders, hopping and flitting about, with their ample bodies cloaked in slate-colored plumage with white underbellies, and we know them as snow birds. Because they are drab, lacking in size and typically do not land on the feeder, we tend to overlook them. Yet these tiny birds are fascinating to watch and convey the essence of our winter experience.

Juncos maintain a pecking order that is easy to observe. They are constantly maneuvering about their echelons of power. Males dominate females and older birds dominate juveniles. Look for tail fanning and face to face confrontations. You can distinguish the males by their darker gray coloring.

The dominate get the best selection of bird seed, too. Although juncos enjoy black oil sunflower seeds, they prefer smaller seeds such as white millet. In fact, they eat the tiny crumbs that float down from the other birds at the feeders. Juncos are ground feeders, and away from bird feeders, they survive the winter consuming the seeds of common weeds. Their diet changes in the warmer months, and insects such as beetles and ants are eaten through the summer.

When the snow begins to melt and the robins start to sing, there grows a yearning deep within, and the juncos get the calling; the forested hills of spruce, hemlock and yellow birch orientate their internal compass north and to higher ground. Now, the developed low land, with its suburban sprawl, scattered shrubs, and numerous bird feeders, is no longer where they need be, and on the right night when the sun sets at the perfect time, they will take flight heeding the call north.

Yet even before they arrive, they will have transformed, landing in their new habitat in full breeding behavior, wasting little time to restore energy and begin claiming a territory and mate. Now, this quiet winter bird becomes vocal, and instead of being grouped in small flocks, males pair with females, isolate, and defend against others of their kind. The junco is a different bird in breeding season. The male's trill begins before the last star fades into the dawn and does not stop until the first star appears at night. People are surprised that juncos are incessant singers.

When the flock flew into the dusk on that October night, I stood and listened to their call, notes punctuating the fragile solitude in the silence of the setting sun. I listened carefully and took in each note with utter appreciation; around me was the neighborhood with its towering oaks, scattered homes, and melancholy sky. I could see the sun sinking behind the distant line of trees, trembling like a mirage, and fluctuating in vapor until it broke into pieces of golden light that slowly slipped away, leaving a translucent sky that soon darkened into a purple dusk. I knew then that with the arrival of the junco would come the winter and the excitement of more birds at the feeder.

Robert Tougias is a Colchester birding author. His book “Birder on Berry Lane: is now available. You can ask him questions at roberttougias@gmail.com.