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

You have binoculars but haven’t been using them recently when looking at birds. This is known among birders as “naked birding.”

It’s widely practiced by the confident, complacent and otherwise preoccupied. You could look it up. And it’s not advisable behavior in the bird-busy season of spring.

Example: in a freshly greened-up suburban neighborhood, you see a flock of birds crowding and fussing around somebody’s backyard feeder.

As far as stopping to observe all this, a part of you feels: “Been there, done that.” You know there will be some late-leaving juncos, downy woodpeckers, chickadees, nuthatches, the usual gang.

Besides, you’re not on a quest in the woods, but merely on a neighborhood dog walk. Still, you stop.

A slightly different bird in that crowd catches your eye. You linger.  You send a mental message to that interesting bird  saying, “Don’t move.” And make a quick trip home to get your binoculars.

Minutes later you return, not naked. Old habits don’t go away easily. You take a look, focus in…

Whoa. What? A Northern Waterthrush? Ovenbird? Swainson’s Thrush? Veery? It’s on the ground, this oddly reddish bird. Got interesting markings—maybe a Wood Thrush?

Focus, man. That’s no thrush; it’s a late-migrating Fox Sparrow. An old-time personal favorite, with its streaked front, rusty plumage and long tail. Been a while since you’ve seen one. The thought hits: maybe you’re the one who’s rusty, m’friend.

But now you’re feeling like your old self. Binoculars in hand, you’re not doing the “naked birding” thing. You’re a little energized. The way you like to feel, especially in spring around here. There’s a lot going on.

Yeah, every once in a while, you gotta bring the world into sharper view, close in on it, make it part of your day. You gotta get back to being the two-fisted birdwatcher you always were and still are.

Forget naked. Hell, you just saw a Fox Sparrow.

Thanks to a guy named Thoreau, you might find yourself muttering in your mind something about a word that doesn’t exactly fit into a two-fisted lexicon and that word is “blessing.”

As another old-timer would have said, it doesn’t “roll up its sleeves, spit on its hands and get to work”. (Sandburg, writing about “slang”). Back to Thoreau. (You forget his first two names for a moment—guys of that era often went by a mouthful, no worries, they’ll hit later when you stop trying).

Back to excuse-making for the less than rugged word, “blessing.” But screw such self-editing. Thoreau said this: “An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day.”

Two-fisted or not, that sticks in the mental library if early morning walks are a routine part of your routine. And if you have a dog who needs a daily reminder that he’s house trained, you get him the hell outside early. Like “still kinda dark.” “Crepuscular” early. A ritzy word also not in any two-fisted lexicon.

But forget about whether a word has muddy boots, and just say what’s going on. Like: every freakin’ morning at dawn, you’re out there walking the pooch. Watching the eastern sky lighten over the trees sometimes in orange glow and other times in silver, and you say: hell, Henry David, you nailed it.

An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day. If the word fits, wear it. You do feel blessed to see the day start, dark then light. It’s blessedly quiet, too, and in all seasons dawn smells good. And you see birds. Sometimes deer. Once in a while a coyote stares before turning with a shrug and trotting off.

This morning, on your early morning walk, there was suddenly a silent presence moving over you and your dog, a flying machine of commanding size, owning the sky, stamping an image into your day…and you know it was a Great Blue Heron rising for reasons of its own, powerfully, soundless wingbeats putting a mark on the moment and disappearing.

You don’t want to recite in your mind that quote from Thoreau, but it floats undeniable as the heron, low and quiet. Even your downward-sniffing dog has looked up, all eyes, which you read as unlikely canine “awe” but you believe it. And get on with your day, silently thanking Mr. Thoreau for his insight and the heron for his wingspan and the dog for being the reason you’re out there on an “early morning walk.”

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“Early Morning” is a re-run. It appeared last November, one of our first posts after coming back from a hiatus. It was in the Viewpoints category and today it reappears in Daily Sightings. With a new photo. Nothing professional, just a spontaneous iPhone shot. This added photo spurred us to re-publish the piece with a nod to Henry David Thoreau and doing things we like more than once–such as our dawn walks.

When you’re out in the deep woods, you might focus on a woodpecker, and discover there’s a porcupine on the next branch.

Or you look at vultures picking at something in a clearing, and notice that a coyote is looking back at you from the tree line.

It’s good to get out where the birds are. More than good. It’s wild.

While birding, you might see muskrat, beaver, mink, snapping turtles, alligators. You’ll come across deer, a sure thing.

Could be you’ll see snakes, moose, elk, fox, antelope, javelinas, armadillos, wild sheep, maybe a bear.

You might spot a Pine Marten, if you’re lucky.

Marten sounds like a bird’s name. When you talk about it later, people think you’re talking about a Purple Martin, something like that.

But it’s no bird. It’s a predatory mammal, all fur, teeth and claws. It hunts in trees, and is rarely seen.

“Pine Marten” is also the name of a fiction piece in our Stories section.

Well, we call it fiction. But, like everything mentioned here, it comes from real life.

Not a bird

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Old-time two-fisted birdwatchers might remember this tale which still appears in Daily Sightings under a different title. After eleven years or so, maybe it’s worth a second look. And it even links to a slew of  short stories. For new readers, some things to discover in the wilderness of the present. 

It’s not just a walk in the wild. It’s a football snap. A pay raise. A skirt lifting. Hike is a versatile word.

But mainly it’s a walk in the wild.

You head through deep forest. There’s snow in patches and you see tracks. You think about a bobcat.

You get to a river and there’s beaver sign, wood shavings. You see Wood Ducks, wildly colored.

Under the roots of a tree is a den. Half-eaten raccoon nearby, its spinal cord pebbly. A coyote lives here, far from the trail.

You bushwhack on. A bird squawks over the water. Belted Kingfisher.

A deer with erect ears is watching you. You watch back. Three other deer become clear. They jump away, white tails up. 

You see a Great Horned Owl, tree-colored, in a tree.

You’re warm in the freezing day, pushing on.

You reach the rapids where water pours over rocks. A few years ago, your dog jumped in, and you helped her climb out, both of you soaked.

Here, time stands still. Yet time passes. Maybe the owl understands how both can be true.

Hours later you head out, bushwhacking, still bushwhacking. You think: don’t forget this hike. Write it down.

~

The above appeared in “Wild Notes – Observations about birds and other fleeting things,” a book published in 2015 by one of our writers.

It was a lousy week. The water heater cracked and flooded the basement. Home internet service kept going out. There were doctor appointments. But wait. Aren’t we going to talk about birds here? Is this a gripe column or a birding journal?

Yesterday April turned a corner. Sun warmed every bit of our world with light. A nearby lake looked like green glass. Turtles basked on logs. Canada Geese showed up, that old mix of the annoying and majestic.

But wait. That’s not what this is about. No, while still fretting about water heaters, internet service and doctors…something unexpected happened.

On this bright afternoon a Red-breasted Merganser popped up on that lake. There was its unmistakable elongated shape. Prehistoric beak. And spiky backward-tilting crest. Light and dark coloration with a reddish tinge. All that you know about a Merganser: there.

By some roll of the avian dice, it dropped in for a visit, floated around in odd-duck strangeness, and the odd duck standing on shore completely forgot—for a moment—about water heaters, internet failures and doctors.