Taking the dog for a late night walk to end our day is a ritual almost as enjoyable as the walk we take at sunrise every morning. Both give us a chance to be alone, apart from people and the machines of people.

The birdsong of morning is too big a topic for this quick note. Our subject, at the moment, is a strange bird vocalization just heard in the dark of night.

Normally we hear the somewhat musical hoo, hoo, hoo-hoo that we know comes from a Great Horned Owl, our neighbor and old acquaintance. But recently we’ve been hearing an atonal single-note, a shriek.

And we’ve been wondering—what’s that?

We figure most birds just shut up at night and go to sleep. Although sometimes Mourning Doves or Mockingbirds can make a little night music. We know their sounds, and the shriek wasn’t them. We also know the chirp of a nighthawk—usually heard at dusk, and it wasn’t that sound.

So what was the creepy shriek?

It dominated our nighttime walk and we got the feeling that no respectable Great Horned Owl would compete with it, but would simply move to a different set of trees. There are plenty in our rustic neighborhood.

We hate to resort to tech stuff when it comes to the ancient sport of two-fisted birdwatching (or listening), but this time we broke a rule and went online. The fact that our answer was readily available is both good and bad. Good because it helped us make the audio identification, and bad because, hell, tech stuff just doesn’t jive with nature as we’ve always known it.

Nevertheless, now we understand what we’re hearing, what has taken the place of our familiar Great Horned hoots and replaced them with a shriek that’s disconcerting, even unfriendly, especially in the dark.

It’s a Barn Owl. We recently saw one of these pie-faced birds sitting on a street sign near here, so we know they’re around. And the sound we heard was confirmed by this audio recording thanks to Audubon. To hear it, just go to their page and scroll—they call the sounds “screams,” which is kind of an overstatement. But they solve the mystery.

A recent post here also referred to a recording—that of a Red-winged Blackbird. But no worries, we don’t intend to turn our Daily Sightings column into a sound-fest. It’s just that we like to write about things “of the moment,” and at this moment we’re fresh from hearing what we now know is a Barn Owl.

Tech stuff, internet resources, all that, is not our thing. But sometimes you have to just do what makes sense and bring Google into the picture. Or the soundtrack. We didn’t see the bird shown below, but we heard him. Not a pretty sound, but no longer an unknown one.

Actually it sounds anything but friendly. It sounds something like—“Watch out, guy, you’re in my space.” No matter. The voice still makes you feel things are right with the world.

It’s the vocalization of a raucous, feisty Red-winged Blackbird. There’s much about this bird to admire.

It’s reliable, one of the earliest migratory neighbors returning to our northern wetlands, prairies and even roadside ditches.

The males show up first, staking out territory that suits their fancy and might be appreciated by females who arrive later.

These guys are big and tough blackbirds with attitude, and bright red patches on their wings.

That healthy red is there to impress females, intimidate rivals, and make humans who care about such things stop and stare.

But even if you don’t sight the bird, when you hear its voice you feel that everything’s okay. And you say to him, under your breath: “Hey, old friend. Welcome home. Always good to hear from you.”

Footnote:

With the help of the National Audubon Society we can all listen to a Red-winged Blackbird right here and now…just go to the following link and scroll to “Songs & Calls.”

Audubon!https://www.audubon.org/field-guide/bird/red-winged-blackbird

If that picture looks familiar, you have a good memory! It ran about a year ago, right here, with a column that’s going to appear again after these green italic words stop. Why the repeat? Actually, it’s a three-peat. It’s also in the book “Wild Notes,” a compilation of our stuff. We’re coming back to it today because American Redstarts are flashing like lit matches in the springtime trees, and because today’s a holiday made for remembering people.

You don’t see people strike matches much any more. When I was a kid, my dad would light a cigarette even when we were walking in the woods.

I remember hiking with him, and a few steps away a flash of flame would be there in the foliage as my dad’s match flared. It was gone in a blink. But the memory’s not gone.

I remember noticing something like that years later on a solo hike. The woods were green and thick. But there was a flash of hot orange amid the leaves for a moment.

I thought of my long-gone and fondly remembered dad starting up a cigarette for relaxation back in those days when people smoked and believed it was good for them.

But what I saw wasn’t a match. It was a bird, with patches of hot red-orange, and it was there for a second. Then gone — a memorable moment. My first sighting of an American Redstart.

Its flash of color wasn’t my dad’s match but something as quick and elusive. If you’re lucky, you see one of the these birds passing through during spring migration. Around Memorial Day.

Every spring an odd duck shows up around here. There’s a small lake nearby, or a big pond, or something in between. It’s got a green-brown elemental beauty that comes from being the real deal—a spring-fed woodland watering hole and wildlife attractor.

Fish big and small can be seen moving under the surface, busy at inscrutable fish business. Turtles sun themselves on logs near shore and fat frogs lie on lily pads. Birds are attracted. Ospreys and Bald Eagles rarely. But commonly we get cormorants, kingfishers, redwing blackbirds and all kinds of ducks.

One little brown duck just paid a seasonal visit. Not only does this duck not live here, but it’s not actually a duck.

When you see this little transient, your first thought is “a duck.” Yet it’s some other kind of bird, as two-fisted bird watchers know. We’ll mention what kind in a moment. But first we gotta reflect on how this bird is mis-identified with some justification.

There’s folk wisdom that goes, more or less: “If it swims like a duck and walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck.” That persistent observation was coined by the famous old poet James Whitcomb Riley, a guy who wrote widely in the 1800s and early 1900s. Funny how so many literary immortals have three names. (Henry David Thoreau, Edgar Allen Poe…). If he simply went by Jim Riley, would we be talking about him in this far future of ours?

Whatever, James Whitcombe Riley was pretty famous for a while and his “duck” quote of dubious wisdom stayed in our culture and was used and mis-used in many ways over the years. Point is, if you see our pond’s migratory visitor in spring or fall around here, you might think it’s a duck.

But it’s not. Even though, James Whitcomb Riley would say you’re perfectly right in thinking so. It’s a “grebe.” A reassuring seasonal sighting, and also a great word. “Grebe.” Speak it proudly. Show you know what you’re looking at, and it ain’t a duck.

What kind of grebe? An odd duck of a question, not heard every day. The grebes of the world come in more than twenty varieties. Ours is a “Pied-billed” Grebe, because its bill has a color pattern that old-timers described as “pied.”  Whatever, this floating duck-like bird is a grebe. (Incredibly, a distant cousin of flamingos).

But to all the world, and to most of the people around here—it’s some kind of duck. And that’s okay. We know the truth, and we like knowing the names of what we see. But more than that—we appreciate this grebe showing up here like clockwork in spring and fall. Floating like a duck on our little lake, leaving a wake, leaving a memory.

It’s bleak in the woods on a day when you expect action. But in this wilderness that yielded much on past hikes, stillness.

Wait. Motion. In front of your boots the ground moves.

A long, thin snake. Stripes running from front to back. Shiny eyes, pointed tail. It’s carrying no danger, no fun. It wiggles off but doesn’t go far.

Shouldn’t there be birdsong? In your neighborhood the trees are full of it. Why not here, where April in the wild should be loud?

You hike on. Then…what’s that?

A small bird alights on a nearby branch. You get a good look. Finally something. A spring warbler. You say to yourself (and maybe the snake)…“Myrtle.”

A strange word and wrong for this bird, yet not really wrong. The current correct name is “Yellow-rumped Warbler.” But it used to be “Myrtle Warbler.”

For reasons only ornithologists care about, it was officially changed to “Yellow-rumped” back in the 1970s. Whatever. It was an attention-getter.

The only bird you’re going to spot on this bleak hike.

But there was yellow against busy black and white. And that business about the name change. Stuff to think about. And a snake.

You’ve never been on a hike that didn’t have some things going for it.

In the beginning you went into wild places just to be in them. You saw birds and surprised yourself by learning their names.

But they weren’t the draw. Wilderness was. Birds were a bonus. Then things changed. Birds became a goal, especially spotting new ones.

When you saw, say, a rusty Wood Thrush with that loud spotted breast in the underbrush, you found out what it was.

Later when you saw a Swainson’s Thrush and knew it was NOT a Wood Thrush, but a cousin, you got a kick from knowing the difference.

You looked for more birds, adding new ones to your history in wild places.

Today, you go into the wild, especially during migration (like now) and still enjoy the kick. But you’re a two-fisted birdwatcher with a few miles on you.

You’ve seen the seasonal flows of tiny warblers. You remember bobolinks and meadowlarks before they got rare. You saw two kinds of tanagers, here from the tropics.

You chased Pileated Woodpeckers. And saw Bald Eagles make a comeback. You’ve seen grouse, grebes, woodcocks and owls, prehistoric kingfishers and leggy shorebirds with goofy names. You appreciate the arcane knowledge. But you’re giving it a rest.

You go into the wilds without a goal.

In the past, you might have thought: Gotta find a Yellow-headed Blackbird. Something new. You push yourself ‘til you do.

(And did).

But now, you’re also satisfied with the local Red-winged Blackbirds. Their raspy calls evoke a smile. You guys go way back.

Today, you’re more than a two-fisted birdwatcher. You’re a two-fisted rememberer. You relax and enjoy what’s there. That’s the goal now.

(Although you did hear of a Piping Plover making news. And it wasn’t all that far…)

Once upon a time we wrote on this page: “A Big Breathing Calendar.” It had to do with the nature of time and the time of nature.

We just revisited that innocent old post for a reason we’ll get to in a moment. But first, gotta say: we were blown away by its dateline. March 2010.

If you were with us fifteen years ago you might remember our words. But if you haven’t seen it before, no worries. We’re hitting the concept of time again because it’s just so damn timely.

Today was the first warm day in a while. Late February can bring melting snow and re-introduce us to predictable avian doggedness.

Which means today the year’s first Red-winged Blackbird was seen around here. On a reed near a thawing pond. Shining black with that show-stopping red patch.

And we thought of the words that hit long ago at a similar moment with similar bird activity. The wild world is just a “big breathing calendar.”

Whatever is going on in our messy human business at the moment, the birds out there mind their own time zone. And they make no note of us. But it’s fun to note them as we barrel through the years.

Red-winged Blackbirds have started to come back. Proving again that their world is a kind of calendar. They’re doing their thing, and the calendar is doing its thing. Again.

A friend sent us a picture of a massive hawk overhead. It was taken in the American West, and even though field marks can be hard to pin down, we’re calling this a Ferruginous Hawk.

Another contender would be a Red-tailed Hawk, but there’s no hint of red on this guy’s tail. Not that there needs to be. That’s what makes hawk identification a variation-rich challenge.

It’s not exactly iron-colored (ferruginous) either, but according to our best guess about all this, we’re stubbornly going with Ferruginous Hawk.

Maybe it’s because we like that name. And even if we’re wrong today, it represents a symbol we used in a story written long ago.

It was named after this bird, and we included it in our “Stories” section because we like to ofer more to read than just our “Daily Sightings,”  although they’re the meat and potatoes.

So we invite you to check out the Stories section, and also get into the Ferruginous Hawk, if you haven’t already.

Today, more than ever, it’s a cautionary tale. Flying with an unforgettable wingspan over a world of too many cautionary tales.

All that talk about eagles last week brought the subject to mind. It was about eagles with a capital E, but those Super Bowl ass-kickers are not the subject.

They just got us thinking about other rare raptors we’ve watched. And where and when they popped in and out of our life.

As a Chicago kid you had little chance of seeing a wild eagle. You’d go to Starved Rock Park and hope. Later on you’d hike the serious wilds of the U.P.—aptly named “up” for its position on the map—Michigan’s unsung hero of untamed wilderness.

There you saw eagles. Young Bald Eagles with brown heads, mature ones with white heads. All with mean eyes and muscles. 

Later you saw them in Alaska where they were common as pigeons. They were flying, coasting, sitting in treetops, and one met your gaze, defiantly saying: “no fear.”

You saw them in Yellowstone and also in Florida, one circling Disney World of all places. In Arizona you saw a Golden Eagle, its coloration highlighted in lowering sunlight.

So, yeah, Eagles with a captial E were in the news. But their namesakes were in your memory.

And recently, incredibly, there was one in your backyard. You have a puny pond back there, and in a tree overlooking the flat water sat a massive Bald Eagle. It reminded you of those on the Chilkat River near Hanes, Alaska where, eagles were common as pigeons.

But this one was in your backyard. Super.

Meaning this: On a mid-winter day you take your binoculars and head into the wilds where your gut tells you it’s going to be pretty dead as far as finding birds. Still, there could be something. That’s the fun of it, the “could be.”

Could be you’ll spot a Snowy Owl. But in your experience that’s always been the “somewhere else bird.” And it seems to know that.

Maybe you’ll see a Pileated Woodpecker, rare but not impossible. Could be you’ll almost step on a pheasant being pinned by a Red-tailed Hawk and they’ll both flap away in a rush, the pheasant dripping blood, the hawk glaring at you with pissed off eyes.  (This once happened!).

Could be you’ll see a White winged Crossbill, something rarer than a junco or nuthatch. Your mind wanders as the trail wanders. Your memory is full of birds well remembered. You might not have birds in the present, but you’ve got them in the past.

“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” Yeah, Faulkner said it. Now you’re saying it. And you’re remembering good times in the living past…

Spotting what you thought was a Scarlet Tanager in these woods, then discovering it was an even rarer Summer Tanager. You’ve got that in the past and can visit it on this barren day.

You’ve got the memory of two breeds of Cuckoos seen here. You’ve got Indigo Buntings iridescent in last summer’s sun, and a comical Woodcock waddling off. There was a Yellow-breasted Chat, too. The list goes on.

Even if you haunt this old trail on a bleak and birdless day, you’ve got the past. It doesn’t disappoint. Hell, it’s not even past.

Maybe you saw the news story about a guy in Cook County, Illinois who saw almost 300 different kinds of birds there in one year. The guy even saw a Golden Eagle. And a Short-tailed Shearwater (common in Australia, not Lake Michigan!). Around here that’s the avian equivalent of a Wrigley Field homer.

He added these to his honor roll of birds seen in one year and broke a record. This guy’s not just a two-fisted birdwatcher. He’s a role model.

We started this blog (which grew into something more—not sure how to describe it: e-zine?) in order to make the simple claim to an indifferent world that the image of a birdwatcher is not dweeby, but rugged.

Birdwatchers—as we’ve said on our home page, and throughout fifteen years of scribbled stories—are tough mothers. (Not real mothers, necessarily, though they’re birdwatching, too, but the slang kind.)

Point is: the guy who scored all those sightings in Cook County in one year is a wild animal of a birdwatcher. Beyond tough. Two-fisted in the extreme. Dogged, determined, devoted to an outdoor sport not normally known for heroes. But around here, yeah, he’s a hero.

A two-fisted birdwatcher to make us other two-fisted birdwatchers proud. And a little better at what we do. Hey, was that a Short-tailed Shearwater skimming over the lake? Who knows? Well—truth is, we do. What’s more, you do.

Why am I pulling into the same parking area of the same woods at the same time of day to walk the same trail and see the same things?

A familiar question on a familiar day. I shrug it off and go for a walk. It’s what I do. If I didn’t, I’d be somebody else.

I see a sparrow and figure it’s not worth a second look. But I focus the binoculars on it anyway. And, hey, there’s some unexpected white and yellow. It’s a White-throated Sparrow.

Nothing rare, but not an everyday bird. Kinda cool.

Moving on, I notice there’s some new coyote scat on the trail.

Scat’s an academic word. A coyote researcher I knew talked about it a lot. He had the improbable name, “Wiley.” As in “Wile E. Coyote” from the Roadrunner cartoons.

I’m smiling about this name as I move on. And the thought hits: You never walk in the same woods twice.

This is a spin-off of the famous line, “You can’t step into the same river twice,” by the Greek philosopher, Heraclitus.

I’m no scholar, but I do like Heraclitus. He was bummed out about the unstoppable passage of time. Some people call him the “weeping philosopher.”

As I walk, I’m thinking about how the “same river twice” idea extends to the “same woods twice” insight that I just stumbled upon while circling coyote shit.

I soon get interested in a Red-tailed Hawk above me, and have the thought that he’s probably the same hawk I see every time I’m here. It’s his territory.

Maybe he sees me, and thinks: “There’s that guy again, it’s his territory.” I smile. Better believe it pal, this is my territory. Never had that thought before. Something new in the woods.

I see a couple of crows. They’re smart, and I wondered if they were also watching me like a hawk. Maybe today’s bird-watching excursion was a two-way street.

Maybe it always is. Maybe the White-throated Sparrow was looking at this scruffy, army-jacket bum out of the corner of his eye, thinking, “Him again.”

Anyway, I’m having an okay time. The trail is familiar. The air’s bracing. The exercise is working out the kinks. The woods are sort of the same, and sort of different. As always.

~        ~         ~

If the above rings familiar, well what a memory you have. A similar report appeared here more than 14 years ago. After all that time, we’re still hitting the same woods twice, so it seems worth sharing with you twice.

You can be a mountain-climbing, forest-hiking, campfire building, tough nut who knows the hell out of birds and their habits and field markings and all that. But you still might know a little about subjects that break this stereotypical mold.

Like maybe you know a song or two from classical music or even Broadway. And you happen to remember the haunting “Music of the Night” from “The Phantom of the Opera.”

What does this have to do with the rugged sport of two-fisted birdwatching? Last night, while taking the pooch for a midnight bathroom hike in the snowy nighttime woods, you hear…the music of the night.

You know a fierce and fearsome Great Horned Owl is offstage in the dark. And he’s performing a great horned aria.

Bird related experiences are the meat and potatoes of these reports. Usually not about music, although not long ago we wrote about Melanie and her “new pair of roller skates.” And we once wrote about the late Dave Brubeck and “took five.”

Mostly we cover two-fisted birdwatching. Not music. But that “phantom” won’t shut up. The owl hidden in the treetops is hot to repeat that haunting solo in the dark. Hoo-hoo…hoohoo-hoo. Then again. The music of the night from the phantom of the forest.

The owl might’ve been excited because the pooch is a tempting midnight snack. But the pooch was going home in one piece. Yet, the lonesome music of the night continues in the woods. Wild.

The nice thing about winter birding is you can see through the forest. No leaves. Mostly branches, limbs, twigs and trunks. With space between to spot birds.

You don’t mind being cold, and don’t mind snow and ice underfoot. Because a cool sighting could be waiting around the next curve in the trail. It could be real, or maybe something else.

Today you come upon a giant old tree, long dead but standing strong, tall and timeless. Sure enough, on one of its branches, there’s “the story bird.” It flutters, it chatters. A Tailorbird.   

Specifically, a “Common Tailorbird,” resident of South Asian jungles and suburban Mumbai backyards. But here it is. The most interesting sighting in today’s empty woods.

Its name: “Darzee,” remembered as the heroic busybody in Rudyard Kipling’s tale about a kickass mongoose and deadly cobras. On this cold day Darzee is not in hot India. He’s in your American freezing forest.

What tropical bird could be so far from home? A crazy one? Hey—Darzee may be flighty but he’s not crazy. Just imaginary. You nod to him. No need for binocs. You see him fine, this unforgettable bird from Kipling’s unforgettable tale.

Few other birds can be seen in these empty winter woods today. But you’ve got Darzee. You’re not complaining. This bird helped a fierce mongoose save a family from killer cobras. Well, let Kipling handle those details. And maybe share them with a kid. For now, you’re just glad to remember an old story and glad to spot an invisible bird, a story bird.

But then, there’s always something worth finding in the woods, whatever the season, whatever the weather. Something to take your mind off all that’s going on outside the woods.

After a long winter’s hike, you’re nursing a beer in your favorite restaurant bar. You’d been out all morning looking for a Snowy Owl, but didn’t see one.

You’re no stranger to this bar, or this beer. Both are old friends. But there’s something different today. The place feels nicer. Why is that?

You gotta think about it. But first, you gotta hit the men’s room.

There’s a big guy in there who got stuck watching his kid while his wife shops in the neighborhood. He’s changing the kid’s diaper on the sink.

The atmosphere’s worse than usual in the men’s room. Plus, you can’t get at the sink.

It’s a deciding moment.

You’re pissed off because you didn’t see the Snowy Owl that many people have been talking about on the internet. Now this.

You want to give the guy a dirty look in the mirror, and say something like “cheeez!” Then leave, and slam the door.

Something stops you. Instead, you say, “Ah, the joys of fatherhood.”

You smile at the guy as he struggles. He looks up and says, “Tell me about it.” And smiles back. Now you both feel good instead of bad.

Back at the bar, it hits you. Why the place feels nicer.

It’s the lights. This restaurant bar is lit up with little holiday lights. They’re strung across the ceiling, over the bottles, around doorways.

You hate to say it—it’s not a two-fisted comment—but they’re kind of pretty. They give the place a…glow

Normally, you don’t care about things in a bar being pretty. Except for tall, blond Donna who sometimes sits with you.

No, you don’t care that they’re pretty. But you gotta wonder, why don’t they have these little lights all year ‘round?

~

The above was first published here in 2011. The sentiment hasn’t changed. Even though we still haven’t seen a Snowy Owl!

Can you call a solstice “nature?” Everything’s nature, but especially the environmental stuff, the outdoors, and this morning during a dogwalk at the usual time, the usual morning light just wasn’t there. Nature. Non-negotiable.

Today was and is December 21, winter solstice. It’s always a little unclear if the night before or after this day is the longest one of the year, but what’s not unclear is that it’s pretty dark at dawn.

Instead of this darkness being challenging, it’s encouraging. It underscores the implacable nature of things in the natural world. During the winter solstice, you’re not going to wake up to morning light streaming into the room. Non negotiable.

And on your walk you might see a coyote with steaming breath staring hungrily at your pooch, and you might see a few freezing squirrels who were smart enough to take care of their nuts, and you might see a cardinal, some nuthatches and sparrows. Hardy winter birds you expect—expectations met.

But you won’t see a Ruby-throated Hummingbird, or any hummingbird. You won’t see a Veery or a Vireo. No cuckoos either, Yellow-billed or Black-billed; they’re not cuckoo enough to stay so they migrate. Non-negotiable.

How does the dimly lit morning of the winter solstice connect to thoughts of birds who migrate and those who don’t? Easily. Comfortably. They both calmly illustrate that this is the way the world works, with or without our involvement or understanding.

It’s not the world of human stuff, but the real world of planetary rotation, of bird migration, the non-negotiable indifferent nature of nature. Oddly, this is comforting as hell, although as you crunch through the coating of solstice snow, you’re cold as hell. Still you’re loving it all.

It’s dark around here at 6AM. Starting to lighten by 6:30, dog-walk time. Today was single-digit cold. Like “one.” The ultimate single digit. Leafless trees stood jagged against a silver-gray dawn. Their silhouettes looked strong.

Back home, we loaded the backyard feeder with seeds. Hands freezing. Quickly, cold birds came. We watched from the kitchen window. We don’t kid ourselves: this is not “birdwatching.” Just feeder watching.

The birds are cold. Puffed up. The parka worn during our dog-walk comes to mind. Puffed up. Feathers in there somewhere.

Birds crowd around out there. Word spreads. They are quick and busy. They have natural parkas. And our seeds. December is always cold here. No problem.

There are sparrows and juncos. Chickadees and nuthatches. A couple of woodpeckers. A blue jay. A shock-red cardinal.

They’re scarfing free seeds on a new day in another season. They do this every year. A one-degree morning is just another day on the job. They’d make it through the winter even without our seeds.

They’re Chicagoans. Tough guys.

After a lazy few weeks of falling down on the job by not going into the wild for exploration, solitude and the spotting of cool birds and animals, there’s guilt at play.

Come on, if you’re a two-fisted birdwatcher, get off your butt. Hit the trail.

Pull on your beat-up boots, get binocs in your fists and lose yourself in the wild for a while. So yeah, you go. But then—whoa: the day you pick to break that run of slothfulness is wildly cold.

The wind chill factor (a dubious indicator popular with weather reporters) is flat-out vicious. Way below freezing. Even below zero! We’re talking “bitter cold,” another one of those everyday phrases surprisingly coined by Shakespeare, and he nailed it.

But you’re not in the woods to think about English Lit—you’re here to think about a jackpot sighting that would defeat discomfort from this deep freeze in deep woods. That probably won’t happen.

Still…considering the time, place and isolation—the goal bird on this hike is a Pileated Woodpecker.

You look. You listen for jackhammer blows against frozen wood. You march on. But the most interesting thing in the woods is only your breath which comes out like smoke.

No Pileated Woodpecker to welcome you back to this favorite old wilderness.. The only Pileateds on your hike are the ones that never fly out of your memory. Fun to revisit those reliable, unforgettable sightings in the mental scrapbook.

Enough for now. You leave the frozen forest to its lifeless, silent self, yet you feel vindicated. You’ve broken the ice. Literally. You’ve hit the trail, an overdue greeting to wild winter which, against common assumptions, is a fine time for birdwatching. (More about that in a future post.)

You’ll be back soon—wind chills notwithstanding. And if something good gets spotted you’ll report it. Right here.

After all the usual things to be thankful for, a two-fisted birdwatcher on this cold gray Midwest morning is thankful for a seed feeder dangling outside the kitchen window. And the crazy action it stirred up.

It’s given food for thought…as well as food for the birds of Thanksgiving. Which are…bear with us on this—common House Sparrows.

Nothing special to look at. Drab, brownish gray, few interesting splotches of pattern… small… and, for sure “common.” In fact, they’re the most common birds in the world!

They originated somewhere in Eurasia. Got “introduced” to New York in the 1850s, then, bam, within a blink they’re found from Canada to Panama and everywhere in between. Especially outside the kitchen window scarfing down seeds and making woodpeckers and jays wait for a turn.

Today, within hours, a ravening flock of common House Sparrows emptied a full feeder. This is a clue to their rapid success in America and everyplace else where these born opportunists have spread, or been introduced, including New Zealand!

House Sparrows—by whatever quirk of fate—are super adapted to living side-by-side with humans. They love our food scraps and our buildings where they find nesting places that other birds would disdain. They go where we go, live where we live, and like it.

Maybe that’s why we should be thankful. But wait. Thankful for a drab and common little bird? Not a flashy raptor, colorful jay, exotic tanager or a once-in-a lifetime “accidental” blown around the world for life-listers and life-lusters to drool over?

No, nothing like that. Maybe we should be thankful that at least one species of bird actually likes us. Better yet, maybe the subject of our thankfulness isn’t something to dwell upon. Instead, let’s turn the focus onto the common House Sparrow (for a change) and think about what IT’S thankful for.

The answer is kind of flattering. Us.