Saw a Mourning Dove this morning. Was it mourning anything? Probably the end of warm weather around here. It was on the ground, pecking at litter under a seed feeder. It stood alone and apart from a ragtag bunch of juncos, chickadees, nuthatches and sparrows.     

The sight of this solitary bird brings to mind a favorite old novel. “Lonesome Dove,” by Larry McMurtry. It’s worth knowing about whether you’re into books or not. Friends have said, “What did you do to me, recommending that story? I can’t stop reading it!”

But back to this morning’s Mourning Dove. Aren’t doves said to be social? Lovey-dovey and all that? So the sight of this lonesome dove does two things. It catches your daily bird-watching interest and also reminds you of that novel you read. And then re-read a few years later for the fun of it.

Sure. Some things are worth doing more than once. Like reading the Pulitzer-winning, two-fisted “Lonesome Dove.” And maybe even telling you about it more than once, too.

Long-time readers of our stuff might remember that we mentioned this years ago. We got a slew of comments from those who agreed.  Just because you’ve read that big, rawboned, wild-west, rough & ready literary classic before, doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it again.

Thinking this, you nod at an actual lonesome dove on this cold morning. And you think, hey, thanks guy, for the reminder. Maybe gonna re-read that big book another time someday. But for now, just gonna write about it.

The fall migration is in full swing and whether or not you walk in the wild, you can’t help but notice. It’s in your backyard. It’s in your front yard. And up and down the street. You notice this because you’re a two-fisted birdwatcher.

And you notice it not because you have binoculars in your two fists. No, you’re “naked birding” which might sound sexy, but simply means you’re without binoculars. It’s a great kind of birdwatching— spontaneous, incidental, unavoidable.

You’re walking the neighborhood, say in the morning with your dog. And you can’t help noticing the active trees. They’re full of animation. Not the quaking of colorful fall leaves in breezes—that’s to be expected—no, the leaves are alive, but they’re not leaves, they’re birds. Many kinds.

This is not about spotting species—although that can’t be helped when naked birding. Yeah, there’s the usual crew of fall warblers—Black & whites, Blackburnian, Yellowthroats, Chestnut-sided, others too. Even some jumpy Robins who won’t stay, along with the calmer ones who will. And Veeries—prone to crash into windows for inexplicable reasons. And various thrushes.

But skip specifics for now—this moment is about motion, liveliness in the trees, the fuss within and behind the leaves. You see it and think, okay, it’s fall migration again. All, or at least something, must be right with the world.

And then you see a fairly large bush that bears some kind of red berries—you never knew their names or cared much, and in this bush there are Cedar Waxwings. Not a few, but a flock.

And individuals can be made out without binocs—you see the yellow tail tips, the crest, the smooth beige body that looks more like something made of glass rather than feathers, the spunky movement and impatience, individually and as a flock—a flock with its own nervous system.

And you know tomorrow this bush will be empty of waxwings, and most of its berries. The action will have moved south and you smile, knowing this, without needing binoculars in your two fists, feeling again that at least something’s going according to plan, and this is worth a lot, this knowledge.

It was really quiet as we took our early morning walk. Me, thinking, Thoreau said an early morning walk is “a blessing for the whole day.” I’ve thought that before and mentioned it in one of these posts before, sorry. But it’s unavoidable. To be out at dawn—and dawn’s pretty dark this time of year, is just a cool thing. Cool in both meanings.

It’s to be appreciated. As is Thoreau and some things he’s said. But it’s so still on this dark dawn. No wildlife. Just a lot of plant life. Trees, bushes, aggressive in our woodsy area. Now a little more light is coming over the trees. The dog and I know this scene, this routine, this moment, and we appreciate it. But a bird or two would make a nice note.

Sometimes we see a coyote stopped in the distance staring at the dog. Pointy snout, beady eyes, sexy wildness in a somewhat tame setting where suburbia touches woodlands. But this morning nothing moves.

Birdwatching is a priority. They said in the beginning—go early, kid, that’s when you’ll see birds. I have found that to be BS. Birds, like people, are scarce at dawn. I’ve seen many birds over a long time at it, mostly when the sun’s up. The life list is good now and it’s hard to find something new. These days it’s just a blessing to find a repeat. Hell, I’ve seen Pileated Woodpeckers, Summer Tanagers and Bald Eagles walking distance from home.

The dog doesn’t care. His focus is on whatever smells so interesting on the ground. But he did look up at the distant coyote that time, and their eyes met. My intuition is that he felt no fear, that he wanted to either greet the coyote or something ancient in his own genes said he wanted to eat the coyote. Dog DNA, you gotta marvel.

It’s getting lighter now and the sides of the treetops that still hold some colorful leaves are getting lit on one side by yellow light, cool. Gotta think of Thoreau’s quote again, although we don’t want to get sappy about it. Time to go home and start the day. Or restart the day. The start’s already happened, and it was out here in this dawn, with trees and quiet and a lightening sky.

Then, wait, a hoarse call, a kind of screech but not unmusical, a loud single-note blast of sound cuts the quiet moment in half. I thought: what could that be? Only candidate that made sense: a Jay. I had no hope of actually spotting it. The sound came from overhead somewhere but it’s unclear where. Lot of clutter in the shadowy treetops. Hope the sound comes again. It doesn’t.

But wait, incredibly, there’s a bird there momentarily revealed through branches and dying leaves right overhead. I get a good look for half a second. A bit more sun is out now, and a ray hits this bird. A jay. In a ray. A Blue Jay of course. I’ve seen most of the Jays. Even a plain “Jay” with no modifier in Europe years ago. Two kinds of Scrub Jays in the American South. A Steller’s Jay out West. But the clear favorite for reasons of design and personality is the Blue Jay, a resident around here and a buddy who’s been fun to see since I was a kid.

And on this quiet morning just as we were about to call it a day, this Jay said hey. A greeting that we both know wasn’t entirely by accident, or at least that’s the way we’re calling it.

I’m hoping to find a Ruddy Duck today. Haven’t seen one for years. Ducks don’t exactly float my boat when it comes to two-fisted birdwatching. But this particular one is always worth a look.

The Ruddy Duck is not the reason that as a city kid I got interested in birds. The first Cardinal was. Spotted in a black & white street scene, standing out like a cherry on a sundae, something that grabs a kid’s attention.

But the Ruddy Duck, while not the reason I got into birdwatching, still confirms that this is a cool pursuit. Surprising, challenging, even philosophical. See, the Ruddy duck, like that Cardinal, surprises with inexplicable color.

“Ruddy” means “reddish,” right?  But although it might be reddish, there’s an un-named color thing going on that makes you want to spot it.

A bright blue bill.

No idea why. The great duck designer in the sky simply painted this bird’s bill…BLUE. Out-of-left-field blue. A bit of avian mischief. (Like that crazy plume on a Gambel’s Quail. What’s that about!)

And this makes the somewhat tame activity of waterbird watching a little more interesting. How’s it “philosophical?” We understand natural selection, survival-based coloration, all that, but why a blue bill? You have to wonder: the essence of philosophy.

Whatever. It’s just another kick in the tricky sport of two-fisted bird watching. First time around, you want to spot this bird and add its stupid name to your life list. Next time, like today, you just hope to see the Ruddy Duck again, and get a look at that crazy bill.

We’re in Southeastern Florida. It’s not a vacation. C’mon, the season’s late summer. In other words, hot, humid, really hot, and likely to have a hurricane. But this isn’t about weather. Our visit is a family gathering. But this isn’t about that either. This is—what would you expect, considering where you’re reading this—about a bird.

A Southeastern bird. A bird of the semi-tropics we call Florida, and the flat-out tropics we call anyplace near there where a bird can fly. And we see a bird. Okay, for the moment, all else is out the window, off the table, no longer worth wasting words over. What we want to focus on is this bird seen in hot humid Florida.

But before we get to the I.D. here’s a fun fact: the bird is not on the wing, not in a tree, not in water, not in a palmetto or shrub, not on the ground, no, the bird is joining us for breakfast. It is in a restaurant. An indoor restaurant. Sitting on a chair at a nearby table.

Folks are having breakfast. (Eggs make an ironic appearance, but they’re ignored by this bird). The thing you’d probably want to know, considering you’re someone who reads this bird stuff, is: what kind of Southeastern bird was it?

Maybe you’re hoping it was a Painted Bunting. The jackpot of Southeastern bird sightings, but you think: get real. That wildly colored bird is only going to be spotted in the wild. So what was it?

Could it be a Hudsonian Godwit? They do show up along the Atlantic coast during fall migration. But not the case. We just like saying that name. Hudsonian Godwit. (And it is actually on our life list).

Hudsonian Godwit. Not.

Could it be Miami’s own national bird, the state bird of Florida…the Mockingbird? Sitting in a restaurant mocking us. But no.

How about an American Coot. Well, the restaurant did have some coots, but of the human variety. Yeah, and it wasn’t a gull, Or a Booby—Blue-footed or any other kind, even though South Beach is near.

It wasn’t a Merlin, a Pied-billed Grebe or Peewee. Not a Boat-tailed Grackle, Scrub Jay, swallow or oriole, nor any one of the myriad warblers that flock up our field guides and life lists. No. So what was this interesting restaurant-going wild Southeastern bird?

Answer. Common house sparrow. The kind we see up north, and everywhere else. Year ‘round. A bird that is nothing to write home about. One of the most common birds in America, and probably the whole world. That little brown and gray house sparrow. So what’s the big deal?

It was sitting on a chair.

In a restaurant.

And it was a bird.

Green Herons have always been confounding birds, at least around these parts. And by these parts we mean these posts—the posts of Two-Fisted Birdwatcher.

Cranky posts, sometimes, but always appreciative of two things: the world of birds and readers like you who spend a moment here. Seeing an interesting bird is cool, yet it’s cooler if we share that moment.

But back to the confounding-ness of Green Herons. First reason, and nothing new to readers of this old website, it’s not really a “green” heron. If you can find green, you’re doing pretty good. So that’s part of it.

Also, this bird barely qualifies as a “heron.” Herons are tall, long-necked, graceful, long-legged stately birds that display themselves openly on shorelines and while wading. Plus, they’re especially regal on the wind. Their wingspan makes eagles jealous.

By contrast, a Green Heron could well be called a Green Slouch.

It does slouch. Would that be a better name? Ah, let it be. The poor guy has enough problems in the name department. But “slouch” is kinda catchy. Could be a whole new category of birds.

The Blue-bellied Slouch, the Western Slouch, the Ring-billed Slouch…okay, not our job. Let the taxonomists take it from here. But back to today’s confoundedness…

Our Green Heron is expected to sneak in the reeds, blend into scrubby shorelines and not call attention to itself—they’re hard to find. So it’s really out of character in the photo here.

It’s on a backyard deck railing overlooking a small lake. And instead of hunching over and lurking like a slouch in the shallows, it’s stretching its neck in open air and bright sun. NOT Green Heron behavior.

 On top of that, it’s looking at US.

We’re supposed to be spying on it, identifying a cool, somewhat shy shorebird. But instead—it’s identifying us. Looking our way with that unexpected white eye ring!

Maybe it should be called the White-eyed Heron. Forget “Green,” go with that. Confounding. But fun.

Well, it’s Labor Day. Some say, “end of summer” and some say, “beginning of fall” and of course it’s neither. But it recalls that line from a college poetry class: “The bird of time has but a little way to flutter and the bird is on the wing.”

A timely point to be made as seasons change. And a realistic reminder that we’re not going to score a “big year” again this year.

What’s a big year?

Needs no explanation to many two-fisted birdwatchers but if you’re new to the fun, it’s when competitive birders go on a marathon quest beginning January 1 and ending December 31, tracking and noting every species of bird they see, usually in the continental United States.

Some ultra-committed types take the year off, and criss-cross the country, hitting every eco-zone, where there are birds to be spotted and checked off a list. A good “big year” in the USA can mean more than 700 species.

There was a popular book about this, and it was made into a major Hollywood movie in 2011 with stars Steve Martin, Jack Black and Owen Wilson among others. The “big year” quest is a thing, and it draws impressive people.

A guy named Sandy nailed a big year competition and they based one of the characters in the film on him. He’s been a reader of our stuff, and we’ve had some back-and-forth comments. A real winner, and a modest guy, too!

But back to the here and now. As far as our year of sightings, not so big. The usual cast of characters. Woodpeckers, songbirds, jays, herons and kingfishers, odd ducks and tropical visitors (the blazing favorite tanagers, both Summer and Scarlet).

Saw a Bald Eagle without leaving home, an osprey and owls, sandpipers and a slew of warblers in spring, flycatchers and larks, and, well, this is NOT going to be a litany of this year’s everyday but always appreciated sightings.

Instead, it’s a meditation about the unstoppable march of time. And the acceptance that this year—and any foreseeable year—is not going to be a “big” one here.  But there’s some consolation…

We may not have a big year, but we’ve been IN one. When they made that movie, the camera crew placed a coffee cup on the night table next to star Jack Black—one of the big three in the film.

The perfect prop for that birder hero, and a mug shot we’re proud of.

For birdwatching, you figure you gotta leave the house, the neighborhood, the vibes of city living, concrete and cars. The birds are in the wilds, right?

But birds live by no rules. That’s what you like about getting into their heads.

Like last night. You sat alone in a parked car, waiting for an appointment. You were in a Chicago strip mall on the busy North Side, enjoying a McDonald’s burger and fries.

And you’re watching gulls hanging around. Ring-billed Gulls. “Mall gulls.” Not out of the ordinary, but seemingly out of place. Some perch atop light poles; some waddle on concrete between parked cars. Some just stand, looking thoughtul.

And one of them is watching you. Like a hawk. Not a gull.

Okay: enough mutual watching. Let’s have an inter-species meeting of the minds. You’ve been a journalist. You’ve interviewed folks from the weird to the famous. You’re good at getting questions answered.

Talk to that gull. It’ll kill time as day dims into early evening and you’ve got time on your hands. As well as grease from a French fry recently tossed out the car window…

YOU: Sir, do you have a moment? I’d like to ask you a few questions—consider it a favor in return for that fry you just scarfed up…

GULL: Questions? I got questions for you: why did you call me “Sir?” And … how is it we’re even communicating? We don’t speak the same language.

YOU: Wouldn’t it be great if we did? So on this evening, in this parking lot, and with French fries in the game, let’s break rules—we don’t need language, we’ve got our thoughts—let’s share…

GULL: Share thoughts or fries?

YOU: Maybe both. How ‘bout it?

GULL: Okay, but again—why’d you call me “sir?”

YOU: Don’t tell me you’re a chick. Wait, are you?

GULL: You don’t know much about gulls I see. Or about how to address a lady.

YOU: Actually, I do. Know about gulls, I mean. I work for Two-Fisted Birdwatcher. We all know about birds. And, yeah, I see where you’re going with this, miss.

GULL: Ring-billed Gulls don’t have….what?….finish my sentence Fry-guy.

YOU: They don’t have obvious markings differentiating between male and female. So…sorry, honey..

GULL: From sir to honey? You’re not too good at this, you know?

YOU: Well, you are kinda cute. But let’s start over. I’ve got a question, something I wonder about when I see seagulls on city pavement…

GULL: Did you just say, “see seagulls?” Or was that a stutter?

YOU: You’re a wise guy, y’know? Or a wise gal. A wise gull!

GULL: So what’s your question. I gotta fly, but I’ll give you a minute—if you give me another fry.

YOU: I’m not sure they’re good for you.

GULL: Oh, come on…

YOU: Well, maybe just one more. But here’s my question: Why are you so far inland from Lake Michigan? Gulls’re shore birds, right? Not city pigeons.

GULL: Ah, don’t even get me started on those blimpy dodos.

YOU: We can discuss your views about pigeons another day. For now–why are you on strip mall pavement instead of a sandy beach?

GULL: The answer is in front of your face, fry-boy.

YOU: C’mon, a quick interview is a good interview, so let’s not talk in riddles—what’s in front of my face?

GULL: Geez, you’re slow. No wonder you’re driving that beat-up old Jeep.

YOU: Oh, I get it—the hand in front of my face—resting on the wheel—is holding…sure…I came here for fries, too, y’know.

GULL: Enough discussion—toss that baby out the window.

YOU: Here. Whoops, that brought a buddy of yours,  too…But wait, don’t fly away yet—I’m thinking of tearing off an edge from the burger in a moment…probably better for you anyway.

GULL: What was your question, again?

YOU: OK. Aren’t you better off eating a seagull diet? I’m a birdwatcher, a guy who studies birds, remember?—I know seagulls eat seafood. Mainly—fish. Right?

GULL: Gimme another fry and I’ll give you an answer…

YOU: It cannot be good for you, hanging around a human mall with gas fumes and street junk…discarded bits of crappy human food… NOT good for a gal born to live on FISH.

GULL: Fair enough. Frankly, I wonder about this stuff myself. Let me answer by asking you a question: you ever eat raw fish?

YOU: Well—I tried sushi once when it got popular years ago. And, also, oysters once after throwing back too much booze in a bar…

GULL: And….what’d you think?

YOU: In a word: yecccccchhhhh!

GULL: And that says it all. Wait, what are you doing. Hold on…..Don’t put that fry in your mouth…

YOU: My dinner’s getting cold. In a moment I’m going to take a bite of the burger, too…so you hold on. Wait, where are you going?

GULL: I’m splitting this scene, fry-face. Enjoy that junk food, I just saw a kid coming out of Potbelly’s and I know there’s going to be good pickin’s…

(FLAP, FLAP, flap, flap….)

We received another photo from Dr. Bob. You might remember him for the Cooper’s Hawk with haunting eyes in Daily Sightings Jan. 6, or the sexy female cardinal in Guest Essays last Dec. 10.

Well, the doc did it again, with a Shakespearian quote to explain the “how-to.” But before we go there, gotta say—this bright yellow bird is a show-stopper and brings to mind our personal description, “summer bird.”

As two-fisted bird watchers know, summer days are lazy and that applies to sightings. The uninitiated think—hey, it’s summer, get out and enjoy the birds and bees and all that nature stuff while the gettin’s good.

But, actually, it’s a quiet time for birdwatching. Maybe because nesting is mostly over. Maybe because migration isn’t happening. Maybe birds are just lazing around. But there’s one bird out and about in high summer.

The American Goldfinch, designed to be noticed. Bright yellow. Frisky habits. It flashes in meadows, grasslands and gardens. Dr. Bob got it. This shot is a freeze-frame from a colorful video capturing the bird fussing with thistles.

How did the doc grab such close-up footage? “Readiness is all,” he said. “A favorite line from Hamlet.” He added that surgeons know, “readiness” can be life-saving. But for now, we’re just glad the guy had his camera ready when the bird of summer came along.

This true story ran years ago, a simple statement about the soul of two-fisted birdwatching. Here it is again, with words slightly streamlined, but the photo, mediocre as ever, still standing proud.  

Height of mediocrity? Sounds like a rant. But it’s not. However, there is height. And the story behind a mediocre photo hanging in the office here, and appreciated every day.

Not a good photo, by contemporary standards.

Bird photography has improved, thanks to digital scopes. Pros and amateurs have hit new levels of crispness, color, detail, composition, the whole package.

But, one day long ago, I took an old 35-mm Pentax with me while exploring Michigan’s U.P. on the chance I’d see something wild. That camera was cumbersome, and a 500-mm lens sees a shaky world.

I was in deep woods near Lake Gogebic. Bald Eagles live around there, and I was looking. By dumb luck I spotted one heading to a nest where a mate waited. I worked my 4-wheel drive up a logging road, trying to get near without disturbing the birds. I shut off the motor about a quarter mile from the tall tree where they had a raggedy home.

Treetops blocked a clear photo. I stood on my truck’s hood, needing a higher vantage point. Still no good. I climbed onto the roof. Almost high enough but not quite. I considered a nearby tree, but none had branches I could grab. I went into the truck, and got stuff to pile on the roof.

(Don’t try this at home)

It was unsteady. But how often do you see eagles on a nest when you have a long lens? I stacked backpacks, jackets, a suitcase. I considered hoisting my spare tire onto the roof, but didn’t need it. The pyramid of junk got me high enough if I stood on it and stretched to my full height, just under 6 feet in hiking boots.

I wobbled and almost fell. I was balanced on the roof of a truck on a tilted road. About twelve feet high, I guess. Would’ve been a long way down, with nobody even knowing where I was. I aimed, held steady, and got a quick shot.

Fuzzy, grainy. There are better shots of eagles to be found. But for me, it was a high point in the history of wildlife photography. A point about twelve feet high. And worth the risk. Sometimes a photo can be mediocre and still make a statement about the thrill of seeing great birds and the grit of two-fisted birdwatching.

You expect to see a crane on a city street in a construction zone. But the word “crane” can mean more than one thing. The construction crane, okay. The other kind, whoa, that’s a stopper.

But you better not stop or the guy driving behind could crash into you. Yeah, there on a busy four-lane in a busy part of town, a crane is casually crossing the road. A Sandhill Crane.

At first you think it’s a Great Blue Heron, really lost. But it’s got bright red on its head. This bird—this surprising and surprised Sandhill Crane must be really lost, and you sense its disorientation.

Maybe you imagine how this gawky bird feels as it walks on stilt-like legs across this unfamiliar, unnatural street of human traffic that smells to the wild crane like the circle of hell where gasoline fumes originate.

For a weird moment you identify with the bird, with the feeling of being horribly out of place. Of that universal bad dream of walking into a school classroom having forgotten to put on clothes. You sense that’s how the crane feels.

It somehow got itself in a place not for cranes, but it understands that to unfold giant wings and flap up and away out of that wrong place, would cause even more attention. So the bird keeps walking.

Walking now between two parked cars, and although your view becomes blocked you know it’s continuing into a strip of grass, then onto a sidewalk—where it also doesn’t belong.

You’ve seen cranes in the air overhead many times—flying in flock formation—but have never seen one, alone, on the ground walking in front of your car and other cars, so out of place.

You drive on, thinking, hmm, just saw a Sandhill Crane—weird. Gotta write something about it. But would anyone care? Maybe there’s one person out there in the world somewhere who’d read these lines down to the last word—and that person would care. So, yeah, write about it.

Every morning while sweating in my workout room, I notice the dribbling moose shown below. And looking at that big mama, I think—thank God I’m into birdwatching. That may sound like a disconnect, but it’s not.

I was hiking Yellowstone’s Hayden Valley, keeping one eye out for grizzlies, but mainly hoping to spot a Ferruginous Hawk. A cousin of the smaller Red-tailed Hawk with a name derived from “iron,” suggesting its rusty color. It’s a hardass only seen out West and, coincidentally, it’s also strong as iron. If a thing that flies can look muscular, the Ferruginous Hawk is your guy.

(Its arcane name is the title of a memorable story elsewhere on our site. And a different moose appears elsewhere here too, not dribbling, but “laughing.”) The point of my morning moose musing is that you see things when looking for birds that are not birds but you’re glad you spotted them.

I’d never have seen or shot an everlasting close-up of a moose in full dribble if I weren’t hunting the Rockies for a local bird while in the neighborhood. I didn’t spot a Ferruginous Hawk that morning in Yellowstone. But a towering moose casually lumbered past me, sloshed into a creek, took a drink, and let me take her picture.

I look at it every morning while doing stretches against the wall of that exercise room, enjoying moose dribbles caught in space and time. And think—with no disconnect, thank God for birdwatching. It’s not always about birds, but always about watching.

Midday in a Midwest meadow. The sun is strong. A warm wind rustles the grasses. Nearby you notice an Eastern Kingbird. More brightly colored than its cousin the Western Kingbird.

This kingbird is stark white and black with a slight crest and an erect posture that’s unusual among perching birds. He looks haughty, like he wouldn’t take any crap.

The toughest kid in our tough high school had the nickname “King.” He had scars on his face. He also looked like he wouldn’t take any crap. We wondered if he acted tough because his nickname was “King,” or if the name came only after he earned it.

Do these black and white Eastern Kingbirds look cocky because they’re “king” birds? A pointless musing. They don’t know what we call them and wouldn’t care.

I saw a Yellow-breasted Chat in the nearby trees, a bird with a name I wouldn’t brag about. It was sprightly but suggested little dignity. In the same prairie I’ve seen Dickcissels. I have no idea what they thought of themselves.

I prefer names like “Red-headed Woodpecker.” The head’s red and the guy’s pecking wood. Done. “Indigo Bunting” is a pretentious name. If you tell somebody you saw an Indigo Bunting they do a double take.

You know this. You think some names are pretty silly. Dickcissel. C’mon.

But Kingbird? That’s a name to take seriously. Just look at one. If you’re lucky enough to be granted a chance.

Footnote:

A similar mention of this bird appeared here 14 years ago and elicited this comment from a two-fisted birdwatcher in Grand Forks: “I saw an Eastern Kingbird and a Western Kingbird sitting on a wire with the Eastern to the east and the Western to the west. How did they  know?”

Take your kids to Disney World over the years, and they change like time-lapse photography.

This place makes you notice time passing. You also notice birds. Including a favorite, which I’ll get to in a minute.

First, quick impressions: A Mockingbird on an umbrella table. A pair of Ospreys hunting over Bay Lake. They don’t care if the lake’s manmade. Its fish are real.

Anhingas and Double-crested Cormorants are on the shoreline. White Ibises walk among crowds. Long-legged tropical birds acting like pigeons. Goofy.

Black Vultures and Turkey Vultures watch. Maybe a goofy Ibis is dead. Or a feral pig rots in the palmettos. There’s a lot to eat at Disney World.

A Wild Turkey walks the golf course. Boat-tailed Grackles are common. American Coots float in Fantasy Land. A Bald Eagle circles above it all.

Then there’s an all-time favorite bird. He was around when you were a kid and still is. Things change, but not him.

There’s a bird singing in the tree above you. You look up, but the leaves are thick in early summer and you can’t see through them. The song is clear and close.

You’re drawn to find out who’s behind it. You crane your neck. It’s right overhead in a tangle of green. Your dog waits patiently. It’s his dawn walk, not a bird hike. But even he seems interested.

You know some bird calls. Cardinal, robin, wren and dove…raucous jays. This invisible bird sings a different tune.

You stare at the spot from where the music comes. But see no bird there. The song moves and you follow. Why are you so determined?

This makes you think of Rima the bird girl in W.H. Hudson’s classic novel, “Green Mansions.”

You liked that adventure story even though the language was Victorian, purely out of English lit class.

Later, you also liked the ‘59 film version of it. Young Audrey Hepburn beautifully cast as the mysterious Rima.

A real girl or fever dream?

She sang an avian siren-song, drawing a man (along with the rest of us) into forbidden jungle. Her music was magnetic, but where was she?

Back in the moment: the invisible bird is calling. And you guess: a concealed scarlet tanager? Its throaty robin-like notes make this a real possibility. And you’d like a glimpse.

Nothing.

You think: Rima lives again. This gorgeous ghost from a dusty library has come to your neighborhood to taunt you in a tall tree.

You move away and start the day. But throughout it you remember the invisible bird. And the haunting young Audrey Hepburn, Rima the bird girl.

Put the word “house” in front of something, and it somehow reduces any punch the next word has. “House cat” means a tame tabby, no tiger. A house fly is a citified pest. When ordering a drink, house bourbon is redeye, not the good stuff. Grandma used to wear a house coat, whatever the hell that is. House means, what? Tame? Mundane? Everyday?

But c’mon, those dull vibes are unfair and unwelcome when it comes to the House Finch you just saw in June sunlight today. The bird caught your eye because of its bright red face and chest. Its cool brown side-streaks. Its spunk as it hopped—nowhere near a bird house, but in wild pines.

These birds avoid bird houses and rarely nest in them. Once again, avian name gurus screwed up and chose wrong.

Still—put that aside for a moment—this was a cool sighting, and unexpected. Sure, you’ve seen countless House Finches in a life of birdwatching. But not recently, and then there was that sun hitting this bird’s bright red! You remember reading somewhere that girl House Finches prefer to mate with the reddest males they find. Cool.

That was today’s Daily Sighting. When the day started, we had no idea a House Finch would brighten it. And grousing about the bird’s bad name just made it a little more fun. Hope you see a House Finch, too. They’re everywhere. Except near a bird house, of course.

My dad had signed us up for a nature hike led by a bossy guy in a ranger outfit.

I was ten, and looking for arrowheads. But I noticed an interesting bird in the underbrush.

It flew to a tall tree ahead of us on the trail. There was white on its back, a red dot on its head. And gold flashes under its wings.

I thought I might know what it was. We’d been studying birds in school that year.

I said to our guide, “What bird has yellow wings?”

This annoyed him. I was a punk looking for arrowheads. He sighed, “No bird.” And resumed lecturing to the adults.

I said, “What if it’s under the wings.”

“Son, no bird has yellow under the wings.”

Under my breath, I said to my dad, “Flicker.”

My dad, who would later tease me for life because I once identified a titmouse, looked at me, eyebrows raised.

He said, “What’d you call that guy?”

Eventually, we neared the tall tree. As the bird moved, yellow feathers under its wings became obvious.

Our guide noticed. He stopped the group and pointed, “Okay, everybody, up here we have something interesting…” As though he’d discovered it.

“Flicker,” I whispered to my dad again.

My dad gave me a look.

“Yellow-shafted,” I added.

~

This true story about a father-son hike appeared here a while back. We figure it’s worth another look because a Flicker is always fun. But, especially, because today is Father’s Day.

Two-Fisted Bird Watcher started as a blog when social media was less of a thing.  “Blogging” itself was still somewhat new.

But we had a statement to make in defense of the rugged sport of  birdwatching. So we went online to share views, news, even fun fiction.

After a decent run, we took a break for a few years. (Like a decade!) But started posting here again last November.

Today’s web world is so different. Wildly popular social platforms offer daily fun and contact for millions. We joined that communal conversation in our own way, mainly to notify you that we’re writing things here once again.

We even “boosted” our original Facebook page. And explored other platforms. But y’know? All that posting and chatting didn’t feel like…us.  Our digital personality, we gotta admit, is frozen in time.

So we’re going to concentrate on doing things the old way. Simple, informative notices (with a link) on our original Facebook page. And then–new writing right here with little fanfare.

Social media is great. If there were a thing called anti-social media, that’s probably where we’d belong. But if you choose to visit this site occasionally—we’ll be glad to notify you by email when we post something new. Just use the sign up gizmo, and it’ll be like old times. Old, frozen times.

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.

Dateline: somewhere north of the windy city. A “flyway” according to ornithologists, good for birdwatching. But birding will take a back seat to this story.

Although a bird waits offstage to “strut and fret…a tale told by an idiot.” Snippet from Shakespeare, sorry. But the bird IS a tale told by an idiot, you’ll see.

For now, let’s talk about wind. Hot wind. Chicago is famous for things other than pizza. One is its chilling winter wind, called “the hawk” in folklore. Icy blasts off the lake into the city are appropriately predatory.

But there’s an opposite side to that. Take today. A day in late May. A mean south wind is gusting across Chicago and into the forested outskirts with hot vengeance. A wind blowing out of hell.

Don’t turn the air on in your house, the system will break. It’s 90 out there, and the wind is coming in gales. Screens blow in. Curtains flop and slap. Every bending tree is getting stripped of twigs.

You go down to a small woodland lake and face the wind out of hell.  Even sleeping naked tonight, you’ll be miserably hot.

But late in the day, as you let the blast furnace blow your hair, carrying all the pollutants of Chicago and points south into your face, courtesy of hell itself…you notice that bird mentioned earlier.

A Green Heron nosing along the shoreline. You’ve grouched about this bird’s name before, but cranky and sweaty in the gusts from hell you say again: damn, that Green Heron ain’t green.

It was a bird named by “an idiot.” You watch it strut and fret at the edge of that wind-tossed lake and think: sorry, kid—you’re hardly green at all. But birds make a decent distraction.

For a moment, you’re not pissed off about the wind straight out of hell. And you pity anybody looking for a Green Heron, expecting it to be green. Things don’t work that way in hell.

Not so green