This next bird might fall into the “backyard bird” category -I f your backyard included a modest wetland, that is.

I visited one such wetland in Orono. Located off the Witter Farm road, I remember this small marshy area as more of an extensive wet meadow when I first moved here several years ago. Surrounded by hayfields and by forest, it occupies a slight depression between the two. In recent years, the work of beavers has increased both its size and its water depth and content. It is now a respectable little marsh, providing good habitat for a number of wetland birds.

I had gone birding one Sunday morning at the urging of my birding friend Ed Grew at the University of Maine. He regularly birds this area on his way in to work, and had assured me he had gotten excellent views of a very shy, reclusive marsh bird – a sora.

While I certainly didn’t doubt his word, I doubted I’d be lucky to also even catch a glimpse of the bird. I’d heard it often enough-its loud, distinctive vocalizations had alerted me to its presence on a number of occasions. Spotting one among dense marsh vegetation, however, would be another matter – or so I thought.

I arrived late in the morning, around 10 o’clock. The sun was hot on my shoulders as I stood at the edge of the marsh not far from the road. Crickets chirped; katydids whirred; a warm breeze, heavy with the mingled scents of marsh and meadow, floated over the cattails, bending their tops in a rhythmic motion. Dragonflies patrolled the marsh, while overhead a turkey vulture soared, its shadow rippling over the grasses as it circled on the rising thermals.

I was scanning the marsh when a small form suddenly materialized, as if from nowhere, at the base of a clump of cattails. Unlike the other members of this family – the rails – which have long, slender bills, this bird had a shorter, stubby beak, a short neck, a plump body, and a short, stubby tail. Its yellow bill was set off by a black facial mask and ash-gray cheeks, brow stripe, and neck. Its upper-body plumage was a soft, mottled buff and brown, while its under-body plumage had a distinctive black and white banded appearance.

Later, when I compared my observations with the description in a field guide, I realized I had seen an adult sora. Ed had reported seeing young chicks – now this must have been a sight!

The bird remained in sight for several seconds, quietly moving among the reeds and cattails until it vanished – seemingly without effort. This ability to squeeze itself into dense wetland vegetation is the result of its structure; its body is laterally compressed. This has earned it its family name -rail – which brings to mind that common saying, “thin as a rail.”

Soras breed throughout much of the United States and Canada, and winter at the coastal fringes of the states and in South and Central America, as well as the Caribbean and Bermuda. They breed in freshwater marshes and sometimes in saltwater marshes as well. The female builds a complex, intricate nest from plant material passed to her by her mate: the nest is a woven basket often suspended from surrounding vegetation, with a ramp leading up to it and an overhead canopy.

The female lays a clutch of 8 to 11 eggs, which hatch after an incubation by both parents, at approximately 19 days. As stated in the “Birds of North America” species account, the down-covered, one-day-old chicks can run down the nest ramp to drink and defecate, but they generally don’t fully leave the nest until they are about four days old. Although the chicks are now already beginning to feed themselves, they rely on their parents to feed them until they are two to three weeks old.

Soon the soras will migrate south, for they are a very cold-sensitive species. I hope to see one at least a few more times before the season is over; if not, I have the memory of my first sighting, which took place on such a quintessential Maine summer day.

NEWS bird columnist Chris Corio can be reached at bdnsports@bangordailynews.net