Sometimes you go to the birds. Sometimes the birds go to you.

This time of year, a few birds knock themselves cuckoo by hitting our windows. And they’re almost always the same species. The Veery.

This happened yesterday. Heard a smack against our bedroom window. On the ledge below, there it was: A Veery, dazed and confused.

It was breathing hard, eyes closed. Then eyes half open. An hour later it had flown away, glad to say. That’s the usual outcome, although I’ve seen them DOA on occasion.

During migrations I’ve seen dazed birds on the sidewalks of Chicago under hi-rise buildings. All kinds, including Veerys. I’ve also seen American Redstarts there, and other warblers.

Northern Flickers, too (you wouldn’t expect this of a hard-headed Flicker). And once, even a Woodcock that bystanders were calling an odd pigeon. They were right about the “odd” part. Ever see a Woodcock?

But when it comes to birds hitting my suburban windows, Veerys top the list. In fact, they own it.

Coincidentally, a two-fisted nature girl named Denise just emailed a cell-phone photo of a bird she’d found near her house. It was dazed and confused. I knew that look. Denise asked if I could I.D. the bird.

“Veery,” I replied, and she wrote back, “I think it’s something else.”

Maybe she’s right. There’s a bunch of Veery look-alikes. The Hermit Thrush, Gray-cheeked Thrush, Swainson’s Thrush.

Whatever the name, it was a wild bird that got concussed by a window. It was dazed and confused. I was dazed and confused, myself, last night after a few beers. Just ask the friends I was out with.

The good news is that today’s another day. And also that Denise’s bird—whatever it’s called—snapped back to life and flew away. If you ask me what it was, I’d still say Veery. Am I sure?

I’ve got a one-word answer for that. Figure it out.

There’s a dead tree around here overlooking a swamp. In its upper branches, you see cormorants. Double-crested Cormorants, by name. Although they don’t have even a single, visible crest.

Today I looked at them and realized they’re dinosaurs.

This shouldn’t come as a surprise to me or anybody. We’ve all heard that birds descended from pre-historic sci-fi monsters.

The only new thing is that today, the thought hit: Hey, these hulking birds didn’t descend from dinosaurs; they are dinosaurs.

A Nova rerun that I saw last night is responsible. I don’t want to get all scientific here, but it showed some guy in China hammering open a rock, and there was a dinosaur fossil flattened inside. The fossil had a faint indication of feathers.

A prototype dino-bird? Maybe. Feathers don’t stick around like bones do. We’re not sure who had them way back when, and who didn’t.

It got me thinking: What if this one little bird-like dinosaur wasn’t the only one that had feathers? What if all dinosaurs did?

Maybe T-Rex was feathered like an Osprey instead of walking around with bare reptilian skin. Maybe the dinosaurs we saw in Jurassic Park were based on incomplete interpretations of the fossil record.

Imagine how we’d picture dogs or bears if we never knew they had fur. Naked, and looking nothing much like dogs or bears.

But wait. Didn’t feathers evolve for flight?

Maybe not. Let’s ask an ostrich. Point is: what if feathers came first, maybe as a protective covering. And flight evolved later for the small, lightweight dinosaurs. Feathers just made it possible. Hell, that’s for the science geeks to work on. They’ll get it straight eventually.

Meanwhile, today when I saw cormorants I thought: living dinosaurs.

Later I saw a Great Blue Heron at the edge of the swamp. And Mourning Doves on a wire, a circling Turkey Vulture, a flock of Starlings. I saw a Kestrel on a traffic sign, and a couple of American Goldfinches on the wing.

I still thought: dinosaurs. Not just the prehistoric-looking cormorants. All birds. Including the chicken you’re having for dinner tonight.

Dinosaurs haven’t gone extinct; they’re singing outside your window and sizzling on your grill.

I see dippers. The birds? Mainly, yeah. But other kinds, too. I’ll get to those in a moment.

I guess I’ve got dippers on the mind because our contest is ending tomorrow. And it involves a dipper that’s hidden on this website.

After mentioning on Facebook that we didn’t have the usual number of entrants, we got a boatload of last minute dipper discoverers. Not sure why Facebook’s worth something like 33 billion. But it did goose our contest.

I also see dippers that aren’t birds. Started when I walked my dog every night. I’d look at dark treetops for silhouettes of owls. And I noticed stars. I got to know the dippers. Big and little. Ursa Major, Ursa Minor.

Minor is well named, and doesn’t always show up. But you can count on Major, the big dipper. Always visible, pointing to the North Star, Polaris.

Those dippers in the night are not as interesting as the uninteresting-looking birds called ”dippers.” There are European versions, so we call ours “American Dippers.”

I saw them working in a creek that ran through a mountain town in the Rockies. Fast water didn’t faze them. They were doing what field guides said: walking on the bottom.

I’ve seen birds dive before. There’s a Pied Billed Grebe that visits our neighborhood pond. I watch it dive out of sight and pop up somewhere nearby. But the grebe, like cormorants and loons that do similar dives, are basically just swimming.

Hell, we can swim.

But how many of us can use our toenails to walk along the bottom. Against the current. That’s what dippers do. They hold their breath, grab on and walk, picking insect larvae and other bits of underwater food as they go.

The dippers in the night sky can help you navigate. But they don’t do much except show up. The dippers of the bird persuasion are stunt men.

That’s why I’m glad we received a bunch of last minute entrants for our August contest. Whether you’ve entered or not, whether you win or not, I hope you see a dipper some day.

Not one on a website, and not just the easy ones in the sky, but a real American Dipper dipping under a real American stream, walking on the bottom, then popping back up, looking uninteresting.

Until it goes under again.

This guy shows me a picture of an odd bird that he saw on the beach at South Haven, Michigan, near Chicago. Asks me to name it.

I go temporarily dumb.

“Bird watcher?” he says, “Man, you’re more like a bird quack.”

This is a good put-down because the guy’s a doctor, and the word “quack” carries weight in his business.

It’s doubly good because it comes as a result of my getting stumped by a waterfront bird. (It’s long-legged and wouldn’t quack like a duck. But there are ducks in its neighborhood.)

The bird is familiar. I know its name. But I’m stuck. Why? Could it be the Blue Moon beers that the doctor and I were drinking? Could it be the deep martini that came before the beers?

“Wait, wait, I know this bird” I say, “…a Stilt. Yeah, something like that.” My heart isn’t in it. The doc diagnoses my indecision. (“…bird quack.”)

Okay, to quote an odd movie, The Big Lebowski, “Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you.” Win some, lose some.

So it does me no good to suddenly have the name of the odd bird hit like a punch right after the doctor and I part company.

But there is solace in knowing that the bird doesn’t really belong around here. Not on a Michigan beach, or anywhere near Chicago. The field guide in my mind came up empty because I’m thinking Midwest.

And it’s a Western Bird. I’ve seen these birds on California beaches. But never near Chicago. The doc’s right to say he’d seen an odd bird.

Here’s the picture that he took. Do you know what it is? Of course you do. But we can’t go back and impress him with our knowledge. That bird has flown.

My cousin works in the North Woods on the rez. He’s an archaeologist, and the tribe hired him to analyze their history.

I told this guy he was lucky to work in the woods. He said yeah, but ticks are a problem. There’s a bumper crop.

This reminded me of an experience I’d had years ago…

I’d gone into the same woods to take pictures. I spent an afternoon concealed in deadfall near a creek where I’d set out chicken from a can. Wanted to attract bears or coyotes. Maybe see a bobcat. I had binoculars and a camera.

A coyote came. It was big. Might’ve been a wolf. And a fox showed up. Separately of course. Later I saw porcupines, deer, Great Blue, and Black-crowned Night Herons, Scarlet Tanagers, Evening and Pine Grosbeaks. Several types of woodpecker and an Osprey. Bald Eagles, too.

At my rented cabin on Lake Gogebic, I took off my shirt and noticed wood ticks around my middle. A lot. They must’ve crawled in when I sat on the ground. They were bloated with my blood.

Generally there are two kinds of ticks to know: Wood ticks like these, and smaller deer ticks. It’s the deer ticks that carry Lyme Disease. Wood ticks can give you Spotted Fever and Tularemia. But I wasn’t interested in the science of tick-borne disease at the time.

I was freaked.

There’s a procedure for dislodging ticks, but at that moment I forgot it. I slapped and scraped.

(Procedure? Yeah, right. I’ve heard you’re supposed to stand still when you see a grizzly. But when you see one, you’re gonna run like hell. So much for procedure.)

The ticks came off like velcro being un-stuck. They popped out or broke up, and piled on the floor. A smeary mess. Not a proud moment in my exploring experience. I showered and soaped and didn’t get a tick disease.

But there are tick diseases you should know about. What are they? Sorry. This website is about birds and fun. If you want to read about sickness, the internet is all too obliging. Google away, but be careful. It’s crazy-making stuff.

Just remember that when you go into the woods, there’s a bumper crop of ticks these days. And they can make you pay a price in blood for every other thing you see there.

I’m standing on the north shore of a small, woodland lake. The wind is blowing out of hell.

It’s a hot wind. But temperature is not the reason it’s from hell. This wind has come up here after blowing over Chicago, which sits to the south. It carries factory smells, car exhaust, burnt rubber from highway tires, greasy urban humidity.

A Green Heron comes in for a landing. His skinny wings stretch and slow him, like a jet on a carrier. He walks in the shoreline mud. Doesn’t see me because I’m not moving, just watching.

Green Herons are small for herons, but have the predatory beak and long legs. It hunches its shoulders, and is all eyes, looking for fish or frogs.

It’s got orange legs, white neck, a rusty body. What it doesn’t have is the color green.

Yeah, there might be a weak excuse for some vague greenish-gray on its back, but this doesn’t cut it.

Reminds me of another heron, another visitor to this lake, another misnamed bird. The Great Blue Heron. It’s tall as a big kid; with eagle wings, long legs and a sword beak. It’s gray, white and black. What it’s not is blue. It’s a great heron, okay, just not a great BLUE heron.

When the wind is blowing out of hell, you get pissed about little things.

Author Raymond Chandler wrote that when L.A.’s hot Santa Ana blows, “…it can…make your nerves jump and your skin itch…every booze party ends in a fight…”

I think about bird names, and wonder what the hell caused some to be so wrong.

Herons are only part of it. The Great Crested Flycatcher isn’t great, and doesn’t have a crest. It’s pointy headed, but so are other flycatchers. Including one called a Peewee.

Ever see a Red-bellied Woodpecker? I like the word “belly” and think it’s amusing in any bird’s name. But this guy’s belly ain’t red.

Then there’s the Yellow-bellied Sapsucker. Same thing. Although, there’s a tinge of yellow near the crotch. But not much. You couldn’t even call it a Yellow-crotched Sapsucker.

And the Bald Eagle’s not bald. It’s got a full head of thick, white feathers. The Golden Eagle’s not gold; it’s brown.

And so it goes.

True, some birds have okay names. The Blue-Gray Gnatcatcher works. Especially if you spot one while it’s catching gnats. And the Blue-footed Booby’s a good name, because it’s got blue feet and it’s a Booby.

The Green Heron takes off while I’m thinking this. Must’ve got tired of finding no food on my shoreline, or maybe he noticed me. He flew south, into the wind.

He moved with healthy energy, comfortable in his own body. He didn’t know that he was called a Green Heron even though he’s not green. Or that the wind was blowing out of hell.

Why should he care about such things? Why should I?

I’m on the shore of Lake Superior in the wild U.P. where the locals are called “Yoopers.”

This place exists apart from time. The year could be 2010, 1950, or 1492. You have no way of knowing. Not even a jet plane’s track spoils the sky.

This superior lake looks pretty unspoiled. By comparison, its kid brother, Lake Michigan, seems cloudier. Maybe civilized shorelines domesticated it. Lake Michigan’s a dog; Superior’s a wolf.

The idea of a wolf reminds me that wolves are common around Lake Superior. Nearby Isle Royale has packs. Moose live there, too. Moose and wolves; a consumer society.

The woods rising behind me from the stony beach have black bears. Also bobcats, coyotes, the occasional lynx, Pileated Woodpeckers, a Ruffed Grouse that I almost stepped on. And skittish deer, nothing like the jaded suburban kind. It’s said there are cougars, too.

This place is a time machine. I dialed “pre-industry” or “pre-human” or “pre-smog,” whatever. And hit the button. Like I said, it could be hundreds of years ago. Hell, it could be thousands of years ago. Maybe a mastodon will walk by. My archaeologist cousin found mastodon bones in a field south of here. Yeah, a mastodon would be at home.

I turn to the lake and raise my binoculars. Over Superior I look for gulls but get nothing. That’s okay. Gulls aren’t that interesting. And earlier I saw three Bald Eagles. Black Terns, too, near a small forest lake.

I also saw Evening Grosbeaks, Ruby-throated Hummingbirds (unexpected in the North Woods, but perfectly at home), the grouse, three kinds of herons, an Osprey that seemed uncomfortable on eagle turf, a flock of out-of-season Snow Buntings and Ravens.

Plus, I figure I’ll see Pileated Woodpeckers on the trail. These make me think of the time machine again. They’re pre-historic looking with pterodactyl profiles.

I move into the forest, climbing. There’s something odd in a tree. Baby bear? No, it’s a porcupine.

I get close and take its picture with a cell phone. No prize winner, but it records the moment.

The porcupine was quivering. Guess I made him nervous. I left him alone quickly. Here, above Lake Superior they call this place the Porcupine Mountains.

It’s Michigan’s “Porcupine Mountains Wilderness State Park.” I figure: yeah, they got that name right. I have a picture to prove it.

I move up the trail. Lots of pines. It’s quiet. This is a good place to be. And this is a good time to be here. Because it could be any time at all.

Some wise dude once said: “The itch to travel is partly an itch to live in a different bird book, somebody else’s field guide.”

Okay, that dude was me. In “Itch Vs. Twitch,” one of these Daily Sightings pieces.

Hey, if you can’t quote yourself, maybe you’re not saying much. All that aside, those words came to mind again today…

A package with exotic markings arrived. Inside, was my new copy of “The Birds of Australia, Eighth Edition,” by Ken Simpson and Nicolas Day, with Peter Trusler.

This is from Princeton Field Guides, another example of their fine work. If you want to travel vicariously by “living in somebody else’s bird book,” here’s your ticket.

The birds in this book look familiar at first. But just wait.

You know you’re in for a ride from the opening pages. They don’t start with boring sea birds the way our guides do.  This book opens with giants that waddled out of the Dr. Seuss department. Then you get the boring sea birds.

But boring’s the wrong word when talking about Australia. The country’s birds are a Star Trek episode.

Remember how characters on the Enterprise looked human until you got close? Whoa, that guy’s forehead has bony plates. She’s got three nostrils. Somebody’s blue.

They weren’t all humans on that starship. Some were humanoids. And the birds of Austalia? An American might call them bird-oids.

That’s not what hard core ornithologists would say. These guys know Australian birds, and won’t be fazed by their strangeness.  Ornithology geeks will be wowed about the updating of rare species, the changes in taxonomy, the “Vagrant Bird Bulletin.”

But America’s two-fisted birdwatchers who are NOT ornithologists will read this new field guide like a sci-fi novel.

Up front, there’s a color map of Australia showing that it’s a round continent, give or take a few pointy parts. The image of a globe cannot be denied.

You’re looking at Planet Australia. And there will be bird-oids down there.

Flip to any page. The birds might at first look somewhat similar to those in American books. But, look closer. That crane’s not exactly a crane; it’s a “Brolga.” Looks, like a crane, walks like a crane…but:

“Brolga.”

Flip further into the book. Is that a page of thrushes?  Wait; they’re not like any thrushes you know. There’s a “Cinnamon Quail Thrush.” A whole new model, with a whole new color scheme.

Flip some more. The “Red-Capped Robin” is designed by an artist who doesn’t exhibit in your home town.

And for us ordinary bird watchers, the oddities just keep coming: There are Pittas, Sittellas, Pardalotes, Logrunners; a Chowchilla, a Drongo, and Figbirds.

There are Flowerpeckers and Australo-Papuan Babblers. Spinebills. And Magpies that don’t look like Magpies. Crow-like “un-crows” that are called Currawongs. And what Australia doesn’t have in the way of woodpeckers, it makes up for with parrots.

There are almost 400 pages, 780 odd birds. Literally. With maps, charts, checklists, scholarly text sections and useful tips.

A trip to Planet Australia. The only thing better than going through this book would be going through this country. (You could talk to a guy named Steve Davidson, at the Melbourne Birder, about that.)

Meanwhile, a little armchair birding is always fun. This guide to planet Australia makes it exotic fun.

The other day we heard from a guy named Greg who has a lot of two-fisted adventures. His latest involved seeing a White Ibis and an Anhinga in Illinois. You can read about it on our Facebook page.

Wait a second: did we just say “in Illinois?” Anhinga? White Ibis? Those birds don’t belong in this state. They’re jungle birds.

That got us thinking: Illinois isn’t entirely what you might think. You think it’s midwestern corn until you hit Chicago, which is smoky and windy, with the country’s tallest buildings. Illinois is a routine northern state, you figure.

But consider these places: Modesto, California. Fort Knox, Kentucky. Cortez, Colorado. Page Arizona. Yucca Flat, Nevada…Bizerte, Tunisia.

Tunisia? That’s sandy, with camels, right? And hot. Arizona, California, Nevada? All seem kind of south-of-here, you know?

But they’re located at the same latitude as the Illinois swamp where Greg saw his rare birds. 37 degrees north, give or take a few steps. Draw a line around the globe, starting at Carbondale, and it’ll run through Tunisia, California, Nevada, Arizona, all those warm-sounding places.

This talk of latitude and biological oddities reminds us of when we saw palm trees in Ireland.

From Dublin to Kerry, in latitude fifty-something (just like the temperature), Ireland has palm trees. See for yourself, if you don’t mind a crummy cell phone shot.

Why are there tropical birds in Illinois and tropical plants in Ireland? For Illinois, the answer is easy: it has its toes in the south. Jungle birds are comfortable visiting there.

And the Irish palm question is basic botany. Ireland, cool as it is, never drops below freezing. Palms can abide cool; they just don’t like frost. So they like Ireland. And you will, too, when you go.

As far as liking swamps in southern Illinois, well, if you see an Anhinga or Ibis while you’re there, maybe you won’t mind the bugs and water moccasins. Water moccasins in Illinois? Hey, if we got Anhingas…

A comment recently received….

“My wife purchased a pair of Bushnell Binoculars during a recent trip to Grand Teton National Park.  We did not have much of a choice in a small store at the lodge, but now that we’re home I’m wondering if we made a good choice in spending the $90. Can the “Two Fisted Birdwatcher” put an informative article on-line as to all the different options: auto focus or manual, one handed or two handed devices, magnification pros and cons, etc. This may be particularly useful for those who are new to bird watching. (Notify me about new posts and other two-fisted news items.)”

— Avi V.

Avi, thanks for the question. But as the title of this post suggests, the same dubious bumper sticker wisdom that spawned the phrase, “Guns don’t shoot people. People shoot people.” applies here.

The gun philosophy is controversial. Polarizing, too. We want no part of that action. But the similarity to your binocular question is unavoidable.

It’s not about the binoculars. It’s about the birds. And the bird watcher. Still, we wish we could jump into an informed discussion of optics for you. But in spite of the countertop display (see photo) that we encountered–unexpectedly–in a local wildlife outfitters, we don’t have much to say about binoculars or scopes. We’re not into the hardware. We’re into the wild.

I enjoy ID-ing birds bare-eyed, if I don’t have a pair of binoculars handy. And when I do use them, any kind are just fine. As it turns out, coincidentally, I also have the Bushnells you mentioned, and think they’re great. Clean, crisp views, and built sturdy.

But I’m easy. If you want real expert opinions, go to this link: http://www.ilbirds.com/index.php?PHPSESSID=6cbe0f5a4ac61f5578597a85e16d7195&board=20.0. If that didn’t work because it’s so freakin’ long, you can also get there by going to Illinois Birders’ Forum, www.ilbirds.com, and looking under “Resources – Birding Equipment.” There’s a lot of other good stuff on that website, too. While you’re there check it out.

Meanwhile, here’s yet another twist that parphrases a common observation about guns: “It ain’t the binoculars. It’s the guy holding them.” I guess that’s what we believe. Good luck, Avi. And thanks for subscribing to Two-Fisted Birdwatcher.

It’s high July. High nineties. High noon. A good time for bird watching? No way. Do I go? Sure. Just want a little wildness around me.

A grasshopper lands on my hand. I shake it off, a chicken reflex that I’m not proud of. There are butterflies. More than usual. Big yellow ones and a big purple one.

I remember reading somewhere that these bugs were originally called “flutter-by’s” and got Spoonerized into “butter-flies.” But they don’t hold my interest.

I came with binoculars to see what meager bird sightings I’d find during this quiet time. And there’s a black Indigo Bunting. Huh.

Its blue plumage runs dark anyway, but this one’s high on a branch with backlighting, making it into a black silhouette.

I see bright yellow American Goldfinches. You can count on them in summer when other birds are scarce.

Then a big score, and well-named: A Summer Tanager.

It’s like a Scarlet Tanager without black on wings and tail. All red. Hadn’t seen one yet this year. A hot sighting for a hot day.

I walk on and meet a guy down the trail. A serious dude with a tripod scope. We nod. He says, “Get the Summer Tanager?” He’d noticed my binoculars.

“Yeah,” I say.

He nods. Then, “Well, have a good day.”

I say, “Hey, you too.”

A proper trail interchange: brief.

There’s a sign by the entrance that says “Conservation Area.” Some people must think it says “Conversation Area.”

You see them in here sometimes, yakking away, causing wildlife to hide. Nice people, sure. You’d talk with them at a bar or barbecue. But in the wild, conversation is best kept short. Like the one I have with tripod guy.

Back in the parking area, my car is an oven. I air it out. Too hot a day to be bird watching. Yeah, I don’t believe that.

Even if I didn’t see a Summer Tanager or Silhouette Bunting (new name for this bird), I still would’ve had a grasshopper land on my hand, thought about the odd origin of the word “butterfly” and walked through prairie grass near big trees.

A quiet day in a quiet place in high July.

Sal, Dean and I are at the bar. Sal says, “Life’s an itch.” Dean says, “Then you die.” A new twist on an old banality, thanks to several beers.

I jump in, just to be friendly. “Sometimes, life’s a twitch.”

These smart guys know what “twitch” means when a two-fisted bird watcher says it. But this odd British word gets what it deserves. No response.

“Itch” caught my ear because I’m getting an itch to travel. But I’m not going to twitch.

When I arrive someplace different, I notice local birds. This makes travel better. You don’t even need wilderness. At Denver’s airport I see Black-billed Magpies. This means, okay, I’m in the Rockies.

Near Disney World, we see Boat-tailed Grackles and Cattle Egrets right away. Don’t have those back home. Must be Florida. Cool.

In Ireland, you’ve got gray-and-black Hooded Crows that we don’t have here. In Bermuda the Great Kiskadee’s common. Around the hotel in Maui, trees are loud with introduced Mynas, and you see gray-and-white Red-Crested Cardinals.

The itch to travel is partly an itch to live in a different bird book, somebody else’s field guide.

That’s the itch. What’s the twitch? It’s something way different. It’s for the heavy hitting, two-fisted birdwatchers who make this interest into a Nascar-style sport.

Twitching is traveling someplace to see a bird you heard about. Twitchers get news from the bird underground. Like: there’s an Anhinga in Terre Haute. The twitcher will drop everything and head there to get a rare Indiana Anhinga for his list.

A pinkish Ross’s Gull in Boston draws twitchers from all over. This is an Arctic bird, and when spotted here, it’s a coup for a lister who’s a twitcher.

There you go: musings over the words “itch” and “twitch.”  A little bar-fueled reverie. Although you wouldn’t say reverie in the bar. Even the comment about life being a twitch brought profound silence.

But who cares. I’ve got an itch to get out of town. Maybe in the Southwest I’ll see a Trogan or Phainopepla, but I wouldn’t go there just to see them.

That would be twitchy, which ain’t me. If it’s you, I tip my glass in your direction.

The other day a guy named Sandy wrote us, asking if we knew of a guide who could take him around New Zealand and parts of Australia.

It got us thinking: People have questions and they’re looking for answers. Maybe we can provide an occasional service in “Daily Sightings.” So here goes: Presenting the first ever bulletin board posting on Two-Fisted Birdwatcher.

“…Experienced birder is looking to bird New Zealand, North Island, South Island and Stewart Island with a private birding guide. Planning to spend two or three weeks in this endeavor. Would also consider birding the northeast of Australia with a competent birding guide. The Australian side-trip would be prior to New Zealand or immediately following. Considering the period from mid September to the end of October.”

Another reason why we’re posting this: we have some friends down under. When it comes to two-fisted countries, Australia and New Zealand wrote the book. (Hey there, Melbourne Birders).

If you’re a guide who can handle the job, or if you know of one, let’s hear from you. Use the contact form on this website or the comment box below. We’ll pass along your information to Sandy.

Thanks. Maybe we’ll use “daily sightings” for other kinds of bulletin board notices. There was a guy not long ago who asked us if we knew the name of a blue-headed red bird that he saw in upstate New York. And another guy who asked us to help him identify a vulture-sized bird that had a forked tail.

We responded with an answer to the fork-tail mystery, and the guy wrote back: yeah, it was a Frigatebird. But as far as blue-headed red birds, well, we didn’t think Painted Buntings were in New York. But then, birds can go anywhere they want.

And so can birders. Good luck, New Zealand explorer.

There’s a great open prairie near here. It’s yellow and wild. Wade through it and you could be somewhere in the American Midwest five hundred years ago. Forget the freakin’ jet contrail in the sky. It’s five hundred years ago.

The sun is strong. The wind is dry and hot. The grass moves. And there are Kingbirds here. They own the place.

These are Eastern Kingbirds. Don’t get too excited. They’re not rare, they’re not life-list material, they’re not particularly good looking.

All that aside, my neighbor wouldn’t know a Kingbird if it bit him on the butt. Neither would the guys I have beers with. But that’s okay. I have this particular interest in such things.

I watch the Kingbird and realize my original impression of drabness is wrong. It’s brightly white in front, got a strong black crest and dark back. With white tips on its tail, like the tips of eagle feathers.

(A miniature Mohawk chief could have worn a miniature headdress of Kingbird feathers and it would have had those white tips, like any decent headdress.)

Okay, I look to see what else there is in the prairie. And over there, I see another Kingbird. Then another. By the time I cross the prairie I’ve seen more than ten.

Kingbird prairie, I call the place. And I notice that all these birds behave like kings. They’re haughty. They stand their ground. They don’t take any crap.

When I was in high school the toughest kid in our tough neighborhood had the nickname “king.” He had scars on his eyebrows and growled. Everyone crossed the street when they saw him coming.

Back then, I wondered if he acted tough because his name was “king,” or if he was given the name because of his behavior. This old question hit again in the prairie.

Do these haughty black and white birds with great posture act sure of themselves because they’re “king” birds, or did some ancient ornithologist give them this name because of the way they looked?

Dumb question. They don’t know what we call them, and wouldn’t care.

But then I saw a Yellow-breasted Chat, a bird with such a stupid name I wouldn’t tell anyone I saw it. And that bird looked sheepish.

In the same prairie I’ve seen Dickcissels. I have no idea what they thought of themselves, but I didn’t have a lot of respect for them. Could it be the odd name?

I like names like “bluebird” because the bird’s blue. “Indigo Bunting” is a pretentious name. If you come home and tell your wife you saw an Indigo Bunting you feel a little fussy.

But I don’t have to tell you about bird names. If you’re true to yourself you probably have to admit some are pretty silly. Dickcissel. C’mon.

But Kingbird, now that’s a name to take seriously. That’s a bird to take seriously. Just ask one.

Fourth of July. You see a lot of American symbolism. Bald Eagles are part of it. That’s okay. We like Bald Eagles. But we don’t see too many of these big birds in our American neighborhoods.

What we do see, and what you probably saw this morning when you went out, are American Robins.

We don’t want to rock the symbolism boat, but we think the American Robin could’ve made a decent national bird. It’s the most American bird we’ve got.

It’s cheerful, brave and successful. American characteristics. And tough. When a pollutant (DDT) decimated Bald Eagle populations until it got banned, American Robins were still everywhere.

This bird’s name was mangled by Europeans who didn’t understand what they were seeing. (That’s why we keep saying “American Robin,” the correct term).

Europeans mistook our new world thrush for their old world “Robins.” They were thinking about a little European flycatcher with orange in front and brown on top. The Robin. Completely different bird. Pilgrims didn’t have binoculars and probably weren’t interested anyway, so they called our orange and brown thrushes “robins.”

(A European name that’s incorrect is nothing new. Explorers dubbed Native Americans “Indians” because they thought this was India.)

Like a lot of Americans, the American Robin has got oil-related problems looming. Some of these birds migrate. They get scarce in winter, then fly back to remind us when spring’s coming.

But, what’s going to happen this year? Will the American Robins who head to the Gulf coast find a livable environment? Will they return after a season down there? Well, they’re American birds. They’re tough. What’s more American than the ability to make a comeback?

Let’s be optimistic.

I was watching the Cubs game when I heard a BONK. Should’ve been a bat connecting with a pitch. But it wasn’t. (In all fairness to the Cubs, they do occasionally hit the ball. But, again, that wasn’t what I heard.)

From the next room my wife said “Aw, a bird bammed into the window. Come see.”

This has happened before. Our back windows face a pond. Sometimes birds see the reflection and fly into it. After hitting they either rebound and take off. Or get knocked cold and take off later.

But sometimes they don’t survive.

I downed the rest of my beer, left the Cubs to their own devices, and went outside to see what caused the BONK. It was a Phoebe, unmoving. I picked it up. “See anything?” my wife asked.

“A Phoebe.”

“A who?”

“Phoebe. A kind of bird.”

“Hmm. Don’t know that one.”

She’s not alone. Most people would call this little grayish bird a sparrow. But it was an Eastern Phoebe, and it was where you find Phoebes: near water. Eastern Phoebes are similar to other flycatchers, but unlike the difficult empidonax group, they have no wingbars.

And their tails wag. This is a good way to know a Phoebe. Look in the field guide; you’ll see.

There are other Phoebes, too. The Black Phoebe and Say’s Phoebe are found out west. Not sure how you pronounce “Say.” But I’m assuming it’s “Cey.” As in former Cubs third baseman Ron Cey, also known as “the penguin,” an entirely different bird that’s easier to identify.

Cey makes me think baseball again. And I gotta get back to the Cubbies. But first I took a good look at the Eastern Phoebe in my hand. It didn’t make it. No movement.

I’m in bright sun and take a moment to study the bird. I think about the unappreciated intricacy of its hard-wired design. The template for its color pattern. Its bill, built to catch bugs in flight. Its high forehead giving it an intelligent look.

Studying this Phoebe, close up, I had the thought: this is a really complicated piece of work. Eyes with moist movable lids, feet engineered to hinge and lock. For something so small, it was a helluva machine.

And it had been running fine. But now it was out of the game. Whoa, a heavy thought. Where’d that come from? I needed another beer. I set the bird down under a bush and went in. The complexities of biological clockwork and the irrational inevitability of death are not subjects I wanted thrown at me.

The Cubs were looking good in their blue uniforms, and Wrigley’s green vines were looking good, too. I wanted to get back to the mindless comfort of baseball and beer. And I sorta did. The Cubs were still in the game. But, c’mon, I had no illusions about where they’d wind up.

Subject: me being an idiot. Witness: my son. (But you’ll soon know about it, too). Setting: a crowd in a forest preserve watching a ranger display a Red-tailed Hawk on a gloved hand and feed it a mouse.

But that bloody chomp was to be the climax. Before that, we had to endure a lecture about Red-tails. This one couldn’t fly but was healthy enough to be an exhibit. A hobbled hawk is not a happy sight. And I hadn’t patience for the monologue; there wasn’t much I didn’t know about hawks.

I wandered back to my car for a bag of cookies. Big chocolate chip cookies. I wanted one, and I knew my kid would, too. I returned to the group. Where was my son? I stood on a wood-rail fence to see better. There he was.

People below me… then the ranger…and on the other side, more people, with my son in back. I caught his eye and gestured with a cookie. Then I flung it his way. I was confident that he understood I’d left the boring lecture, got cookies, and was giving him one.

Time out: If you think this is about how the hawk sees my cookie and makes a move to get it, sorry. Didn’t happen. This hawk only had eyes for mouse.

What did happen: I spun the big cookie toward my kid. Used a backhand style, giving it lift, like a Frisbee. My kid’s good at grabbing Frisbees. What could go wrong? Well, if a spinning disk tilts, it might bank and miss its target.

This is what happened to our cookie. It arched unseen over the crowd, and landed gently on the head of a man standing next to my son.

The guy was wearing one of those flat caps, the kind that have no real brim. Its top was flat as an aircraft carrier, and our cookie settled there. The guy didn’t feel it. Nobody noticed. Just me. And my son, who was wide-eyed.

Later he explained that he had no idea I was aiming for him, but assumed that, being bored, I had obtained cookies, located a bird watcher with a flat cap, and tossed one onto his head.

He told me he thought this was pretty damn funny, and he was glad I did it. I knew it had been unintentional, and I was an idiot. But if it gave him some amusement, well, that’s what dads are for.

Footnote: This really happened.

There’s a wing of the birding community that lives to list. Loves to list. Lusts to list. Birding is collecting. So this is understandable.

All the guys I hung with had lists. Lists of ball players, of girls they’d been with. Of micro-breweries they liked.

Do I have bird list, a life list? C’mon, I’ve been wandering woods and fields since I was a kid. Of course I have one. But it’s not typical.

Somewhere in my stack of bird books, there’s a beat-up “Golden Guide to Field Identification – Birds of North America,” By Robbins, Bruun and Zimm. Copyright 1966. It’s so old it has a Baltimore Oriole in it. Fine by me.

My list is in this book. Actually, it is this book.

Not that I need a list. I recall every bird I’ve seen. Ask me if I’ve seen a Blue-Gray Gnatcatcher and I’ll tell you where I first saw one in June ’79. But, as the computer culture has taught us, it’s smart to back things up.

So back to my backup.

A few years ago I went through that old bird book with pen in hand. Next to every bird I’d seen, I put a check. Smooth-billed Ani? Sure. Kiskadee. Clark’s Nutcracker. My first Pine Grosbeak. I remembered them, and checked their picture. I still add checks as I see new birds.

That’s my life list. You can’t turn many pages without seeing checks. How many? A while back I ran the numbers but quit somewhere in the decent triple digits. Guess I don’t have list lust.

But I respect the hardy guys who do. No matter how two-fisted a birdwatcher you might be, somebody’s always better.

That’s okay. I see that I’d checked Abert’s Towhee on page 304. I remember the hazy Arizona afternoon when I saw it, and smile.

Maybe one of these days I’ll run out of unchecked birds in these old pages. But when I leaf through the shorebirds, the alcids, auks and puffins, I figure, no, probably not going to be a problem.

There’s something new in the world of bird websites. It’s a forum. Another forum, you say? Okay, stick with this: It’s not just another forum. It’s a better one.

We’ve had a forum with similar quality in Illinois for a while. Illinois Birders’ Forum. The guy behind it is a two-fisted type named Greg. He’s more than a bird guru; he’s an explorer. He’s hiked Amazon jungles, discovered unknown toads (yeah, toads, but he’s a bird guy), and has interesting friends.

For example, when he recently commented on our observation about “turfs” within forests, he mentioned that ornithologist buddies told him Swainson’s Thrushes defend a patch of woodland every summer in Canada, and amazingly these same individuals defend their own patch of forest in Costa Rica every winter.

Point is, Greg’s connected to the research side of things. He’s a good observer and writer. It’s good news for us that he’s taken the forum concept that he honed in Illinois, and has done a uniquely American thing: he’s created a new national version.

“North American Birders’ Forum” is in the soft-launch stage. That means there’s fine tuning going on. But it’s pretty okay, even now. It’s a single resource for whatever kind of birder you are at the moment, casual or serious.

It clues you in on rare sightings, news reports and other cool websites. It gives you a voice in the giant, democratic conversation that the web is designed to encourage.

It has a “links” section where birders can tell birders about links they like. And it’s adding a “listers central.” So you’ll be able to keep an online record of your own lists organized by month, year, lifetime, zone, whatever.

No point in our describing North American Birders’ forum any further. All you need is the web address and you can go there:

http://birdersforum.com/

Check it out. But come back here once in a while, too. Just for the fun of it.

You bushwhack through the woods until you hit a slow-moving river. There’s an old log there. Makes a good place to sit. You go often enough, and the place starts to feel familiar.

Kentucky author Chris Offut wrote a book about spending his mornings by a river. Gave him a chance to think. (The book is “Same River Twice,” in case you’re interested).

Sitting in one spot is a way to see wildlife. There’s a chipmunk that comes around. Usually I see a coiled snake sleeping near the log. Deer walk by. There’s a Belted Kingfisher watching the water from an overhanging branch.

There are Red-headed and Downy Woodpeckers, Northern Flickers, Swainson’s Thrushes and occasionally I see a Woodcock. You wouldn’t see them if you were on the move. But you’re on the log.

The idea hit: this little spot is a neighborhood.

It’s a neighborhood just like the kind you find in cities. New York isn’t one big city, it’s a hundred little cities. The neighborhoods are defined by streets and El tracks.

It’s the same in the woods. This half-acre by the river is defined by a stand of trees to my left, the log by the bank, and a little creek on the right. Within those perimeters, it’s a neighborhood.

I understand now that it’s not a different chipmunk every time. This guy lives here. It’s the same Belted Kingfisher on the branch. His branch. Same coiled snake. Same neighborhood deer herd. The woodpeckers and Flickers live in those trees; this is their turf.

That’s my sighting of the day: an idea. The idea that the woods aren’t an expanse of wildness, but a collection of well defined turfs. And when you get to know one, you go back to it. And you like it. You’re not just experiencing nature. But human nature, too.