Rolling Coastal Plain

The elementary school's wastewater system is now 95% over its permitted ammonia limit, a sharp spike from 42% exceedance last quarter. Formal enforcement is underway. The local blackwater streams drain slowly and lack the buffering capacity to absorb such a surge, especially as midsummer heat intensifies nutrient stress and oxygen demand.That context matters because Giant Mayflies (Hexagenia limbata) were observed nearby in late May — a sign that water conditions are still oxygen-rich enough to support some of the most sensitive aquatic insects. Their persistence is hopeful, but it does not guarantee they'll survive if ammonia and nutrient loading continue to climb.

Oak Toads (Anaxyrus quercicus) and damselflies—including Double-ringed Pennants and Pale Bluets—appeared across this swamp in the span of ninety days this spring. All are state-threatened species, and finding five of them in one wetland is a sign of how rare and ecologically distinctive these waters remain. Yet the swamp itself sits federally impaired with no restoration plan in place.The root of the problem is visible in the watershed: nearly one in five acres here is cropland, and that agricultural footprint steadily degrades the blackwater chemistry these species depend on. The forest—evergreen stands and woody wetlands—still covers most of the landscape, but the pressure is unrelenting. For these damselflies and toads, persistence here is becoming a balancing act against odds that grow steeper every season.

Blackwater Clubtails (Gomphurus dilatatus) have appeared along the stream this spring — two sightings within recent months. These dragonflies are a threatened species, tied to clean sandy blackwater streams where they lay eggs in fine sediment and raise nymphs in stagnant or slowly moving water with low oxygen stress. Their presence is both a gift and a warning.Upstream, a sewage system has run 95% over its ammonia limit in early 2026, with elevated readings persisting through the fall as well. As summer heat reduces the water's capacity to absorb added nitrogen, such discharges intensify the risk of eutrophication—excess nutrients that would collapse the low-oxygen habitat these clubtails depend on. For now, the stream appears resilient enough to hold them. But the margin is narrowing.

The light is going out of the sky over Southampton County. The tree line holds its shape a few minutes longer than the sky above it, and in that gap, small dark birds are moving. Not gliding, not perching — moving, continuously, in wide arcs over the rooftops and treetops of Branchville. These are chimney swifts, and right now, at peak summer, they are everywhere the evening air is warm enough to hold flying insects.Chimney swifts are built for this kind of flight. Their wings are long and narrow, set far back on a body that is almost entirely chest. Their feet are so small and weakly muscled that landing on a flat surface would strand them. Instead, they grip vertical surfaces: the rough interior walls of old brick chimneys, hollow snags, the insides of silos. They do not perch on wires or branches the way a flycatcher does. When they are not clinging inside a chimney, they are flying. That is the shape of their life. During breeding season, the adults are flying from before full light until well after dark, hunting the insects that rise into warm air columns at dawn and dusk. They catch everything on the wing: flies, beetles, flying ants, small moths. A single bird can take more than a thousand insects in a day.Somewhere nearby, if there is an old brick chimney still standing and uncapped, a nest is attached to the interior wall. Chimney swifts build a small bracket of dead twigs, each one snapped from a branch in flight, glued together and to the wall with saliva. The nest is roughly the size of a half-grapefruit, open at the top, and it holds three to five eggs. Both parents incubate, and both feed the nestlings, which grow quickly on a diet of compressed insect pellets. By late summer the young will be flying, and by early fall the whole population will begin moving south toward South America, following the insects. But right now the nest is full and the parents are hunting.The calls are what you notice first, usually before you pick out the birds themselves against a pale sky. Chimney swifts make a rapid, high-pitched chippering that carries well in open air — a sound that seems to come from several directions at once because the birds are moving so fast. If you hear it where you are right now, look up and slightly ahead of the sound. The birds are always a little farther along than their voices suggest. They cover a lot of ground in the time it takes to locate them. Other aerial feeders are out at this hour too — a great crested flycatcher may be making its last passes from a high snag at the wood's edge, and the Eastern wood-pewee sings its descending whistle from somewhere in the mid-canopy — but the swifts are the ones that keep moving after everything else has gone quiet and still.What the swifts do for the ecosystem is straightforward: they take enormous quantities of flying insects out of the air every day through the breeding season. Gnats, midges, mosquitoes, and the small moths that emerge at dusk are all part of what they catch. They operate in the upper air column, in the space above where most other insectivores hunt, and they do it at the margins of day when light is low and other birds have stopped. The chimney itself, whatever building it belongs to, becomes a node in the local food web for the length of the nesting season. Old chimneys on old farmhouses and county courthouses and brick schools are the reason swifts can breed at all in a landscape where hollow old-growth trees are scarce. When those chimneys get capped or torn down, that is one less place.The sky over Southampton County is nearly dark now. The tree line has dissolved into the general dark of the horizon. But the swifts are still up there, still calling, still moving through air that is cooling from the top down. Listen for that chippering. It is thin and fast and it comes from all directions at once.

The air above the Southampton County woodlands carries the steady click and whistle of three flycatcher species, each claiming its own layer of the summer canopy. From the highest branches comes the sharp wheep call of the Great Crested Flycatcher, while the softer pee-a-wee of the Eastern Wood-Pewee drifts from the mid-story. Below, in the understory shadows, the Acadian Flycatcher gives its sharp pit-see from dense cover.Each species has settled into a different hunting zone. The Great Crested Flycatcher takes the crown of the forest, launching from exposed dead branches to snatch beetles, wasps, and moths from the open air above the treeline. Its broad bill and powerful flight let it handle larger prey than its smaller relatives. The Eastern Wood-Pewee prefers the middle canopy, where it makes long sallies from favorite perches, returning often to the same branch after each hunt. Its diet runs heavily to flies, flying ants, and small beetles. The Acadian Flycatcher works the understory, darting upward from low perches to intercept insects rising from the forest floor or dropping down from higher branches.This vertical separation becomes critical during breeding season, when each pair must capture enough flying insects to feed both themselves and their growing nestlings. A single brood of Great Crested Flycatcher young requires hundreds of insects daily. The parents hunt almost continuously during daylight hours, their beaks often bristling with the wings and legs of moths, flies, and beetles. The Wood-Pewee and Acadian Flycatcher face similar demands but with smaller prey items, requiring even more individual captures to meet their energy needs. The forest's summer insect abundance supports this intensity. Flying ants emerge from colonies in the leaf litter. Moths navigate between flowers in the canopy. Beetles move between feeding and breeding sites. Flies rise from decomposing matter on the forest floor. Each flycatcher species intercepts insects moving through its preferred air space, creating little overlap in their hunting territories despite sharing the same woodland.The forest holds its breath between the sharp snaps of bills closing on wings. Each successful hunt registers as a brief pause in the calling, then the rhythm resumes. If you stand still beneath these trees, you can hear the soft thud of an insect meeting its end, the rustle of leaves as a bird returns to its perch, the almost immediate resumption of the hunt.