After being absent for many months, that first glimpse is electric, captivating, and full of warmth and hope.
~Bridget Butler, aka The Bird Diva, from “Saunter, Gaze, Linger”
https://www.birddiva.com/slow-birding-blog
Last winter my family and I saw Joe Zimmerman’s live stand-up routine at the Flynn, and perhaps the funniest part for me was his rib on birders.
“Recently, I met a professional birder. He gives birding tours. He’s ninety years old—he turned so old he went pro!” And the ribbing goes on for three more minutes.
I try to stay curious about why I do the things I do—things like birding—and to never take myself so seriously that I can’t have a good laugh at myself every now and then. But on recent bird walks, as I practiced naming each bird I heard, I found myself reflecting on this bit of comedy more seriously.
I’m a forty-six-year-old married woman and mother of two children. While I’m certainly not “old” (though I am to my kids—it’s all relative, isn’t it?), I did not actively watch birds until well into my forties. These days, however, I find myself not just watching, but also studying, listening for, hoping for, birds.
In April the tall pine stands behind our flooded meadow carry the high-pitched fairy tinkles of Golden-Crowned Kinglets—tseet tseet tseet—and the operatic warbles of the Ruby-Crowned Kinglet—tseet tseet tseet tseet, chirp chirp chirp, warble warble warble. As I continue into the mixed deciduous part of our forest, I stop every so often to quiet the crinkle of dry leaves beneath my boots. That’s when the irregular staccato rhythms of a drumming Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker reach my ears. After searching unsuccessfully with my eyes for the sap-eating woodpecker, I commence my leaf-rustling walk only to alarm a pair of Hermit Thrushes, who screech loudly and eerily to each other—one from in front of me, and one from behind. “Yes!” I whisper and smile, grateful for the firsts sounds—however cacophonous—of friends I haven’t seen or heard since fall.
By now I’ve emerged from the woods onto our shrub-lined gravel driveway, maybe a quarter-mile from where the Hermit Thrushes warned each other about my presence. All this stopping, listening, watching means I don’t get very far on my daily bird walks. Still, the subtle shift in ecosystem carries news sounds onto the landscape. “Drink your tea!” calls the Eastern Towhee—a handsome male—from within the dense branches of a shrub, a chokeberry perhaps, before landing in the leaf litter to forage. I hear his rhythmic shuffle as I walk towards my neighbor’s yard, which is full of tall grasses around which he mows narrow curvy pathways for walking. Once again, I hear the song of a bird who’s returned safely to his summer home. The Field Sparrow sings sweetly to the rhythm of a ping-pong ball, his song growing ever faster until it quiets to an almost breathless trill.
The way I’d name what I feel while birding in April is relief. While I have grown familiar with all of the aforementioned birds over the past few years, there’s always that chance—that fear lingering in the back of my mind—that some of them might not make the journey back here or might not choose to return. Have we been good stewards of our small patch of forest? When will climate change and fragmentation of wilderness habitat quiet the music on our landscape, depriving us of the company of so many birds for whom we give gratitude each spring even as we take them for granted?
For me, these questions bring to mind both John Zimmerman’s joke about birding as a pastime for the “old”, and the feelings of warmth and hope that Bridget Butler describes on greeting our spring birds anew each year. In this context, I’m more inclined to agree with Zimmerman’s idea, however agist, that birding might be a sign of getting older. This makes sense when you realize that all the years tend to add up to wisdom, perspective, prioritization. Today, the return of birds to their summer home fills me with solace and hope. Could damage-control, or even reversal, really be possible? My bird walks tell me it can, but I don’t think I would have said so ten or fifteen years ago, in my pre-birding youth.
Migrant Birds to Learn About in April:
§ Golden-Crowned Kinglet (seen and heard 4/5/23)
§ Chipping Sparrow (seen and heard 4/7/23)
§ Eastern Phoebe (seen and heard 4/9/23)
§ Brown-Headed Cowbird (seen and heard 4/12/23)
§ Eastern Towhee (seen and heard 4/16/23)
§ Ruby-Crowned Kinglet (seen and heard 4/18/23)
§ Brown Thrasher (heard 4/18/23)
§ Field Sparrow (heard 4/18/23)
§ Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker (heard 4/18/23)
§ Hermit Thrush (heard 4/18/23)
Joe Zimmerman's Birder-Ribbing Routine:
Thanks for sharing the hilarious video! I was laughing laughing laughing....
In your story, loved the description of tuning into sounds more than sights! The woods became so alive as I read on 😊
This is so well-written, Natalia! I loved it! I, too, wait for birds to return, even if not on the same scale as you do. Every year, I wait for the turkey vultures to return to the old barns across the street where many were born and fledged. I can check that off. Right now, I am waiting for "Spike," a very surly hummingbird, who keeps all the others on alert. I've been told that they are early this year, but I still need a week or two to put out nectar, as I have been the target of the neighborhood bear. Thank you for your lovely post. Also full of hope in Cornwall.