Just finished Adam Carolla’s book, “In Fifty Years We’ll All Be Chicks.” It’s good, but has nothing to do with bird watching.

He never got the word that bird watching is a two-fisted sport, and if you told him, he’d laugh in your face.

His cock-sure rants got me thinking about our April 28 post, “Woodcocks and Ken Dolls.”

Carolla might’ve liked this piece. Ah, who are we kidding. The guy doesn’t read, and wouldn’t give a crap about a bird website.

But the subject of birds and their male equipment, or rather the lack of it, has been raised.

How do you know, at a glance, if a bird’s a guy?

If it were a dog or a horse, you’d check for some equipment. In the “Woodcocks” piece we used the popular term, “junk.”

I was looking at a woodpecker the other day. I knew it was a Downy, but had no idea about its gender.

Then, when it moved around, I noticed a red mark on its head.

It’s as though nature said: Hey, we gotta make it easy to know this is a guy, not a girl. There’s no junk, so we’ll mark it with a red spot.

This happens with a lot of birds. Ruby-throated Hummingbird males have ruby throats. Flicker males have moustaches.

There was an Indigo Bunting in the grass yesterday. I knew it was male because it was neon blue. Females look like sparrows.

Mallards swam by on the pond near my house. Males were colorful; females, no way.

Not all birds are designed this way. Bald Eagles look the same, male or female. So do Canada Geese, although geese guys have a little something.

Still, as a rule, males flaunt their maleness. Just like Carolla does in his book.

He may not have heard of the Two-Fisted Birdwatcher, but he wrote a two-fisted book. We like it.

We also like the fact that a woodpecker shows his maleness where everyone can see it. If we did that, we’d get arrested.

How come there are no green birds? I’m thinking this as I walk in the woods.

It’s cold, gray. But the leaves of late spring are big and clean, green on green. Ireland couldn’t hold a shamrock to this place.

But, why no green birds? Wouldn’t green make a great camo color?

Yeah, I know there are green parrots in jungles, and a Green Woodpecker in Europe—although it’s khaki. We’ve got a Green Heron, but a better name for this bird would be a Not-green Heron.

No, I’m talking about bright, leaf-green birds. You’d have thought evolution would have led to a few. Then, I’m suddenly stopped.

A Scarlet Tanager appears on a branch in front of me. It’s mostly the color of a stop sign.

Attention-getting red. And it has black wings and a black tail. The black seems to understand what a wing is, what a tail is. It’s not random; it’s a matter of placement.

This purposeful pattern is as imponderable an evolutionary question as the one about why there are no green birds.

He takes off. Where red once stopped me, now there’s just green again. I move down the trail.

On the way, I hit a streak of sightings. I know guys who gamble, and they talk about streaks. When you’re on one, you know it.

The trail had been quiet, but then I see a Red-eyed Vireo. I stop. While there, I notice a Chestnut-sided Warbler. Then a Great-crested Flycatcher. Streak’s on.

There’s an Ovenbird on the ground. Palm Warblers, a bunch of generic, un-identifiable female warblers, the butt-end of a disappearing American Redstart.

Then, the streak’s over.

I head for the trailhead. On the way, I start thinking about green again. The bright foliage is demanding; you’ve got to think about it.

And the idea hits: Hey, maybe there really ARE leaf-green birds. Nobody ever sees them. Their camo is that good. You could be looking at them right now, and never know.

Driving away, I come to a real stop sign at the side of the forest road. Red against green. Once again, I stop.

"STOP"

First time I saw a Ruby-throated Hummingbird, it didn’t have a ruby throat. It was a female, and females have plain white throats.

Should be the opposite. Rubies belong on girls.

Anyway, first time I saw this small bird it captured my attention, big time. That was a while back.

But yesterday at dusk I saw a female Ruby-throated Hummingbird again, humming around my house.

Must be the hundredth time I’ve seen one of these, male or female. Should be no big deal.

But I looked at it with interest, just like the first time. I wondered why I didn’t get a “been there, done that” feeling.

I get that feeling from a lot of things…

At college, I rode a friend’s motorcycle around the countryside. The campus was corny in a way I didn’t like. I liked far-out corn fields better.

I’d roar around the 2-lanes, sometimes on gravel, going way over ninety. No helmet. I was an idiot.

I soon got tired of the speed. I don’t ride those bikes any more. That’s what I mean by “been there, done that.”

But last night, I was still interested in looking at a small bird. Could it be interesting because it was just that? Small?

Probably not. I remembered stopping suddenly while driving through Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I left the car and took off into the woods.

I’d seen something big in the treetops. A lot bigger than a hummingbird. Yeah, a Bald Eagle. Big bird. Big deal.

But, I’d seen eagles before. They were pretty common there, and I’d also seen them in Alaska, where they’re like pigeons in some places.

Still, as I bushwhacked back to the road I had no regrets. Just black-fly bites, scratches from thorns and another cool eagle sighting.

Some things may get old with time. And they lose their charge when you experience them. Like a fast motorcycle.

But seeing an eagle isn’t one of them. And seeing the hummingbird yesterday wasn’t one, either. I looked for the “been there, done that” feeling. Almost expected it.

But it wasn’t there. A hummingbird was, though, and I watched it.

I’m not much into warbler watching. They’re fidgety and small.

Plus, the name “warbler” is not cool. Or accurate. These birds chirp.

One spring, I came home and my wife said, “Guess what: there’s a warbler in the house.”

She knows enough to say “warbler,” not just “bird.”

She had a colander in her hand. This seemed an unlikely tool for solving the problem, but it wound up working.

That’s not what this is about, though. This is about comedy.

The little black and white bird, exhausted, sat on an end table and my wife gently set the colander over it. We slid a magazine under, and took it outside.

My wife asked, “What kind was that?”

I said “Black and White.”

And she said, “Yeah, I know it was black and white. And a warbler. But what kind?”

I said, “A Black and White warbler.”

She said. “Yeah, the black and white warbler we just got out of the house. What’s it called?”

I said, “A Black and White Warbler.”

She said, “And I thought you knew about birds.”

This went back and forth. An homage to “Who’s on First,” although we hadn’t intended it to be.

“Who’s on First” is a classic comedy bit performed by Abbott and Costello in the black and white movie era. (It’s on YouTube, if you’re interested).

In any case, the bird’s genuine name is simply “Black and White Warbler.” In a world of stupid bird names, this one’s honest and simple.

If it had been a Red-headed Woodpecker, the name would’ve also been good.

“What kind of woodpecker is that red headed one?”

“Red headed.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. But what kind?”

And so on.

This spring, Myrtle Warblers are common around here, but have been re-named “Yellow-rumped Warblers.” A step in the right direction. I like the word “rump.”

If one of these warblers gets into my house, and my wife asks me what it is, I’d gladly say, “Yellow-rumped.”

I doubt this would cause us to replay the whole “Who’s on First” routine again. But, we’d remember it.

Guys I know are sometimes amused that I write about birds.  A typical comment: You know all this shit?

No problem. I’ve been interested since I saw a Cardinal in the city when I was a kid.

I wrote about it in “Tardy,” a little story on another website. There’s a link at the end of this post, if you care.

But for now, back to the questions I get.

I hear this one a lot: How do birds do it?

It’s always asked like there’s a serious scientific inquiry being brought up.

I guess I should know the answer, since I know birds.

Truth is, I know the hawk watching my house is a Cooper’s Hawk, and I know I saw a Rose-breasted Grosbeak this morning.

But I’m no expert on bird sex.

Whenever I check into the subject, I get the feeling something’s missing.

The male bird’s got no…what?….I guess the current term is “junk.” The guy’s smooth as a Ken doll. What’s he using?

There’s an answer. But like all science answers, it isn’t 100% simple. Some guys in the bird world do have junk. Geese, for instance.

You just don’t see what geese have because it’s tucked away until they need it.

But they’re the exception. Other male birds are Ken dolls.

They mate by getting their “cloaca” up against the girl bird’s privates, and an exchange of fluids happens.

A poorly engineered idea, with a lot of ruffled feathers. Although it seems to work.

But consider the irony.

Old timers told kids to learn about the “birds and bees.”

How’d that go?

Nobody knows how birds do it.

And bees? That’s another website. But they have even less to do with how humans do it.

Then there’s bird names. Cocks. Peckers. Dickcissels. I can’t tell some people I saw a Woodcock without their doing a double take.

But junk or no junk, avian guys are getting the job done. We’ve got plenty of new birds to look at. (Especially geese. Hmm…)

And while watching all these birds, we sometimes run late for other things. Which brings us back to that link to “Tardy” I mentioned earlier.

Last Saturday, I wanted to go for a hike in the woods, but didn’t. It was a good day for it. I guess I’d have seen some birds.

Maybe I’d have seen a Catbird that sounds like a cat. I always wonder why this gray bird’s got an orange butt.

I figure it’s the same reason that a chimp’s got a pink butt. Sex. This is unscientific. But thinking about sex doesn’t have to be scientific; it just happens.

In any case, I didn’t go for a hike. I had reason not to. There was a mid-day NBA playoff game on TV.

While watching the game, I thought about the birds I didn’t see by not going for a hike.

I didn’t see the three or four kinds of woodpeckers I might’ve seen. Downy, Hairy, Red-bellied, Red-headed.

Maybe a Northern Flicker. That would’ve made five that I didn’t see.

I didn’t see the Catbird with its orange butt, as already mentioned. Or the Eastern Bluebirds that are predictable in the field near the woods where I hike.

I didn’t see the Bank Swallows that are showing up. No Eastern Kingbirds and Brown-headed Cowbirds.

As long as I’m listing birds I didn’t see, hell, there’s latitude. We’re talking DIDN’T.

So, it’s true to say that I didn’t see a Golden Eagle, or a rare Illinois Anhinga. But why push it.

More realistic to say that I didn’t see a Pileated Woodpecker. This could’ve happened. I’ve seen one in these woods.

I didn’t see a Scarlet Tanager that came home early. For that matter, I didn’t see a Western Tanager that doesn’t live around here.

If a Western Tanager had gotten lost on the wind, and showed up in my woods, I wouldn’t have seen it.

Instead, I saw the basketball game.

As I watched my team suck big time, I thought of the Western Tanager that could’ve strayed off course.

It would have been a rare thing. Not seeing it was my loss. My team’s performance on the court that Saturday was their loss.

A bad day for basketball playoffs and bird watching.

Is it a Yellow-headed Blackbird? I saw it in a distant field through rain-streaked windows while doing forty. But I’m saying, yes, it is.

Two reasons. One is a thing called GISS. An odd word that you might know from birding lit.

The other is an attitude that came from Ernest Hemingway, a guy from American lit.

GISS is a military acronym. Short for “General Impression Size and Shape.” Has to do with identifying enemy aircraft. Now, birders use it.

Hemingway is a writer who believed it was his way or the highway. He didn’t buy self doubt. I’m not wild about his writing, but I admire the confidence he had in his own rightness.

So, when I saw what I thought was a Yellow-headed Blackbird, I used GISS to make the identification.

Then, when that created self doubt, I thought of Hemingway.

I remembered a quote of his. It has nothing to do with birds. No matter. It has to do with two-fisted subjective certainty.

Hemingway said, “What is moral is what you feel good after, and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.”

Nice way of saying that he’d be the judge.

So, I figure I’ll be the judge. As I drive along the country road, daydreaming, I paraphrase Hemingway:

“What is a Yellow-headed Blackbird is what you feel is a Yellow-headed Blackbird after.” And I did feel that.

The bird I saw had the general impression, size and shape of a Yellow-headed Blackbird. It was in the right location, too, the swampy prairie lands far northwest of Chicago.

I don’t care that I saw it for a half-second through a car window from a hundred yards away. I got the GISS thing going. I got the Hemingway arrogance going.

Besides all that, the bird was black. And it had a yellow head.

Somebody called somebody a silly goose. I heard this and didn’t like it. The word silly is not my kind of word.

But mainly, I didn’t like it because although geese are many things, they’re not silly, whether you like the word or not.

When I was growing up south of Chicago, I saw a kid shoot a goose with his dad’s shotgun.

We were in a prairie railyard, and there’d been flooding. A Canada Goose landed and was floating nearby. It wasn’t silly. Just resting.

The kid shot it, not in the way of a hunter, but in the way of a mean, tough, dumb slum kid who wanted to shoot something. The goose splashed its wings, but couldn’t take off.

Geese are overpopulating my neighborhood these days, north of Chicago. They walk the streets. They’re in shopping malls. They pair up, find nesting places, act aggressive.

They’re a smart, all-too-successful species. Get up close sometime and take a look.

They’re strong, gutsy, territorial, dirty, loyal to a mate, mean, clear-eyed, resourceful, foul, colorful, messy, proud, a lot of things. Silly is just not one of them.

People who use the term silly goose are, themselves, talking silly.

Another random thought about a word that’s misused: Storm troopers in old newsreels were said to goose step. They did a kind of straight-leg march, but their feet didn’t look like a goose’s feet.

Geese walk close to the ground. They waddle. They don’t resemble marching soldiers. Goose-step was a silly term.

The word for “goose-like” is “anserine.” That’s a word from the “-ine” family. Like equine (horse-like), porcine (pig-like), ovine, bovine, corvine, vulpine, lupine, etc. (you can look ‘em up, if you’re interested).

The word anserine sounds like “answer” is part of it. As though a goose might be the answer to something.

It’s just a big bird that I saw get shot by an asinine (dumb ass) kid who’s probably dead or in jail now. It’s also a bird that waddles around my neighborhood like it owns the place.

It’s not the answer to anything. And it’s not silly.

It’s the first really warm day. I’m not bird watching. Well, that’s not true. I’m always bird watching.

When I drive, I notice Kestrels on telephone poles. And if some blur of a generic bird flies across the road, I know if it’s a Starling or a Blue Jay. A Blue Jay is better.

I’m in my driveway, unloading the car, not intentionally bird watching. But I can’t help noticing a Red-bellied Woodpecker moving in the tree overhead.

Then…

As I’m looking up, I see past the woodpecker, into the blue sky. And way up there above the trees, a Turkey Vulture is circling.

It’s a big, serious bird with a big wingspan, like an eagle’s. I’m hooked, and keep staring, my head bent back, a bag of groceries in my arm.

Turkey Vulture. This is a bird that your kindly neighbor won’t be seeing at her finch feeder.

It’s interesting for many reasons: The jungle-animal vibe. The wide wings. The way it doesn’t need to flap in order to glide around up there. And it’s got a purely pre-historic look.

All birds are dinosaurs. But this one’s a little more obvious about it.

Then a thought hits: the vulture’s not going away. He keeps circling. It’s not just that I’m looking at him. He’s looking back at me. We’ve got eye contact.

Does the vulture know something?

These birds circle over animals that are going to become dead meat. We’ve all seen them do it in movies; a cinematic cliché.

I get an uneasy feeling. Like I’m in this bird’s crosshairs. Why is it circling over my neighborhood? Over my head?

It’s mainly interested in food. To a Turkey Vulture, death equals food. That makes it an ominous symbol.

As I looked up at this dark bird and it looked down at me, I threw it a message: nice to see you, guy, now move your ass, and go circle someplace else.

I’m in the rainy woods, expecting nothing much. I see some wet crows, hunched and unmoving on high branches.

I spot a thrush close to the ground, and check to see if it’s a Wood Thrush, once common here. A little rusty red would be good. Turns out, it’s a Swainson’s Thrush, as drab as the day.

But the day is what it is. I’m not complaining. This thought reminds me of another sighting…

It wasn’t in the woods. It was on Facebook. I’m not a Facebook guy by nature, but its power to communicate has caught my interest.

Two-Fisted Birdwatcher has a Facebook page. The people who signed on to it are pretty interesting. Many are the non-conformists I’d hoped were out there.

Recently one of these people gave a thumbs-up, and this led readers to the person’s own page. It listed some famous quotations under the heading, “philosophy.”

I liked the quotes. I was reminded of one just now…the “is what it is” idea about this rainy day.

When I get out of the woods, I’m going to take a second look at that quote, and some of the others.

Meanwhile, I’m going to stand under this tree a little longer. You never can tell what you might see here.

A sampling of quotations found on the Facebook page of a person I don’t know. The first one is my favorite:

“Be what you is, ’cause if you be what you ain’t, then you ain’t what you is.” – Luther Price

If you’re going through hell, keep going.” – Winston Churchill

“The cure for anything is salt water. Sweat, tears, or the sea.” – Isak Dinesen

“The whole problem with the world is that fools and fanatics are always so certain of themselves, but wiser people are so full of doubts.” – Bertrand Russell

“I’d rather be told to ‘have a nice day’ by someone who doesn’t mean it than to ‘f**k off’ by someone who does.” – Sean Locke

You’re freezing in the raw wind. Snow is gritty, moving sideways. It’s half winter, half spring.

You feel yourself getting a cold. Doctors tell us that cold doesn’t cause colds. That’s bullshit. Cold can cause colds.

Then you see three interesting things. So you stick around in the wild. When you get home you’ll see a fourth.

First interesting thing: a flock of Eastern Bluebirds. They’re warm weather birds, although not major news when seen this early.

You’ve seen so-called rare bird reports on the web. Semi-tropical Painted Buntings in Boston. Albino Pileated Woodpeckers. Things like that. They never happen near you.

But now you’re seeing bluebirds in the blowing snow. Interesting.

Next thing: a long-legged, pretty girl on roller blades glides in the distance. There’s a farm road nearby, somewhat paved. She’s on it in tight ski clothes, an unexpected sight.

Roller-blading girls are expected along beaches in summer. But here she is, out of place and time. Interesting.

Then the third thing: an American Goldfinch in strangely mottled colors lands on a branch a few feet away. It’s half sparrow-like and drab. But it has some bright yellow patches.

It’s half and half. Half winter plumage, half summer. An American Goldfinch in early spring molt, while winter drags on. Interesting.

When you get home, you pull your hooded sweatshirt over your freezing head and shake out your wild-man hair. And you notice that you’re like the American Goldfinch.

A half and half guy.

Your hair is black in places, the way it’s always been. But it’s becoming silver in other places.

Half your hair is as unexpected as that bluebird flock. Half your hair belongs in another place and time, like that roller-blading girl.

You’re in transition, too, just like the molting American Goldfinch. That’s the fourth interesting thing.

It calls for a big whiskey. Something to get the cold out of your bones. And the thought of silver out of your head.

How close is too close? This pissed off elk is too close. But when you go where the birds are, you’re gonna see other things, too. So watch out.

Too close.

The elk popped up suddenly, and gored the foliage, tossing clumps of earth and weeds over his head.

I grabbed this shot, and moved back.

Another day, a Rufous Hummingbird started buzzing around my shirt. It was too close. Couldn’t use my binoculars on it.

All this closeness got me thinking: what’s too far? When does distance make a bird sighting…not a sighting?

I’ve been reading about military guys who look down on enemy targets from spy satellites.

Their high tech cameras are science fiction that’s come true. They can show license plates, even facial features.

I’m imagining an army guy somewhere who’s also a two-fisted bird watcher. He’s looking at a live satellite feed. Maybe he’s scouting for bad guys, or following a Special Forces team. Tom Clancy stuff.

Then he sees this once-in-a-lifetime bird down there in the war zone. Say, an Abyssinian Roller.

Whoa. Big, exotic, blue and shiny, with a long tail, a first for the guy. Does this rare bird go on his life list? Of course not. It’s been spotted from space.

On that same trip where I almost tripped into a crazed elk, I saw a grizzly. But I was on a mountain; it was in a valley. I borrowed a telescope from a roadside gawker. The bear looked like an ant down there. I don’t count it.

Last year, when my airplane was landing in Florida, I saw a Bald Eagle below us in wetlands near the airport. Sorry, doesn’t count as a sighting. Not from a plane.

Two-fisted bird watching is old-fashioned. I like my two fists to be holding binoculars. I like walking around where the birds are.

You can count a bird sighting only when you’re in the same place as the bird. At the same time. You can’t be looking at it through a high-powered telescope. Or through an airplane window. And not from space.

Can a bird be too close? Well, the Rufous Hummingbird didn’t work out great. But close birds are rarely a problem.

A close elk could be a problem. But that’s all part of the fun.

When there was an oil spill in the gulf last year, it captured our attention. But only for a while. We almost never think about it any more.

At the time, though, it made bird watching seem like a puny thing to talk about. Not an important subject, with so much heavy news coming in every day.

Now there are the earthquake and tsunami problems in Japan. And the nuke plant problems over there.

We’d heard that our oil spill could pollute for fifty years. Japan’s nuke problem could pollute for thousands. What does this have to do with bird watching?

Nothing and everything.

Nothing, because two-fisted bird watching is escapism. There’s no CNN in the woods.

And everything, because Japan’s quake, tsunami and nuke problems bug us. They tick us off.

Go bird watching when something’s bugging you, or when you’re ticked off. Hang out in the wild for a while. Birds’ll come. They like to eat bugs. And ticks.

Like an Oxpecker cleaning the hide of a rhino, or the ears of an impala. Oxpecker. Now that’s a cool bird.

Red-billed Oxpecker de-bugging Impala

There are Red-billed Oxpeckers and Yellow-billed Oxpeckers.

Both live in Africa, and eat bugs and ticks off the animals there.

Now I’m interested in Oxpeckers. Gotta check them out. Where’s my “Birds of Africa?”

Okay, feeling good about something. At the moment, I’m no longer thinking about what’s been bugging me. Or ticking me off.

Nothing and everything: Two-fisted bird watching can have nothing to do with breaking news, and everything to do with taking your mind off it.

There’s a small lake near here, still mostly frozen. But it’s got a new patch of open water, and excitement in the air.

Today, a wild-eyed bunch of gulls have ganged up around that bit of water. Some are flying in quick circles. Some stand on ice, looking for a fight.

These are Herring Gulls. Might be other kinds, too. Once I saw a Caspian Tern on this lake, so anything’s possible. But that’s not what this is about.

This is about a two-fisted rock song that came back to me when I saw the gulls.

They were looking for trouble, they were looking for a drink, but mostly they were looking for sex.

Listen to the old song, “The Boys Are Back In Town,” by the Irish rock group, Thin Lizzy. It nails the moment. Fun, dangerous, wild-eyed.

And sexual.

These birds aren’t just here for water. There’s sex in their blood. I don’t mean gulls will nest at this little lake. They do that elsewhere.

The open water is just this afternoon’s hangout. They’re back in town, back in season, roving around. Combative, excited, horny.

They’re not the only ones. There are also pairs of Canada Geese waiting for the ice to break. Geese aren’t all guys; they’re couples. But back in town, just the same. Because it’s time to have sex. They’ll melt that ice.

Further from the lake, lone Red-winged Blackbirds sit. Each is a pumped-up male in bright red and black plumage. Each hangs onto a reed, far apart from the others.

These guys are back in town. Got here early, before the females. They’re grabbing prime turf, something to impress a mate when she scouts the area. We think of eggs getting laid? Don’t kid yourself: It’s about these guys getting laid.

And back in the 1970s, Thin Lizzy came up with the sound track for all this:

“Guess who just got back today? Those wild-eyed boys that had been away…dressed to kill…and blood will spill…if the boys want to fight, you’d better let them…”

Then, like it was written for two-fisted bird watching itself:

“…the night’s are getting warmer, it won’t be long…it won’t be long till summer comes…now that the boys are here again…the boys are back in town.”

Been in New York for a few days. Took a walk around the cement landscape for reasons unrelated to bird watching. Good thing, too, because the variety was limited. You got pigeons, sparrows…and the list ends there. This reminded me of my last trip here, and a piece I wrote called “A Four-Fisted Birdwatcher.” It was late in ’09, so you might not have seen it. Here it is again. It still works. But while revisiting this cynical story, the world of birds threw a curve. And that leads to a little epilog.

“A Four-Fisted Bird Watcher.”

Even when you’re out of town, out of the woods and out of the ordinary, the sharpened senses of a two-fisted bird watcher aren’t entirely out of business.

For example, in the concrete and brick wilderness of New York City, in the narrow streets of the neighborhood they call Greenwich Village—which is no village of course—even there, you can see a bird or two. And the two birds are these: House Sparrow and Rock Dove, more commonly known as pigeon or rat-with-wings. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t interesting sightings.

A city guy is walking his dog on a treeless, grassless Greenwich Village street. This is the dog’s idea of being out in nature. But who are we to say he doesn’t like it. The man, with leash in one hand and baggie in the other, is strolling along when his dog stops short to look at a sparrow that’s picking at crumbs near a garbage can. One female House Sparrow. The dog’s fascinated. He strains at the leash and wants to scope out the bird, sniff the bird, eat the bird. The guy with the baggie waits.

The bird doesn’t like the dog’s attention and hops to the other side of the garbage can. The dog noses over to that side, so the sparrow hops to the opposite side. They continue this little dance. The sparrow doesn’t fly off; maybe it’s tired, maybe it wants to stay where the crumbs are. The dog can’t get close because the bird keeps the can between them.

Hey, we’ve got a sighting. Not the House Sparrow so much. It’s the dog. He’s more interesting than this common bird. He’s got his ears up, on full alert. He’s a muscular pooch, white with brown spots, a short coat, high forehead and long snout, an intelligent face. No pedigreed breed, just a mutt, but clever, and engaged by the strange sight of a bird on concrete. He’s got to see what it is.

This dog’s a four-fisted birdwatcher, with his rounded, bunched up big paws. He’s straining at the leash. The bird’s giving him nothing. But he keeps trying, out there on the street in a world of pavement and garbage cans. He’s all eyes and ears and into bird watching, taking whatever he can get.

The epilog:

Okay, just as I figured I’d share this cynical view of big city bird watching, and be done with it, I spot a bird in the murky river near Chelsea Pier. This is the Hudson River, where a two-fisted pilot named Sully landed his 737 safely after its engines quit. They ought to name it the Sully River instead of the Hudson. Anyway, I’m ready to go with the “four-fisted” story, and leave it at that. Then I see a few Lesser Scaups in the river. I’m not that much into the sighting of ducks. But the thing is, I’d never seen a Lesser Scaup before. Now I have. So much for assumptions.

Sometimes you get a feeling about what you’re going to see, and what you’re not going to see, even before you enter the woods. Call it a vibe.

It’s unscientific, but undeniable. Today, the vibe said no birds.

Still, I want to get into this wilderness. An old Midwestern oak forest. It’s the country that fur-hunting Voyageurs explored in the 1600s. Deep, quiet, wild.

The Voyageurs were two-fisted Frenchmen who came through in canoes. Between rivers, each guy would carry a hundred pounds of pelts through the buggy woods.

The woods look the same today. In winter, you can bushwhack without bugs. I do this, and notice tracks in the snow. Deer mostly. But some are freshly made by a coyote. They’re sharp-edged. He’s probably watching me. I don’t see him.

I don’t see birds, either.

I’ve come to a spot near the brown, partly frozen river. A familiar place to sit on a fallen tree and think about things. Or, to sit and think of nothing, which is better. Some people call it meditation, when you think of nothing. That word doesn’t come naturally for me.

I won’t see geese and ducks on the river. Not today. I won’t see a Pileated Woodpecker. Or Red-bellied and Hairy Woodpeckers. No Downy Woodpeckers.

This could be blamed on the time of year, or maybe the time of day. But not really. Hell, on other occasions at this time of year and this time of day, I’ve seen plenty of birds.

A Great Blue Heron freezing his feet on ice. A Belted Kingfisher flying over the thawing river, letting out a croak that was more dinosaur than bird.

I’ve seen a rare Northern Shrike when the vibe was right. Tufted Titmice, Red-breasted Nuthatches, a Horned Lark, an Eastern Bluebird that didn’t migrate. Forest Robins that also didn’t migrate.

On days when I saw these birds I expected to see birds. I could feel it.

Today, nothing. And I knew it would be that way. That’s okay. I wanted to sit, watch the river, and think of just that: nothing.

A flight of imagination…

You beat the Himalayas. You did the tedious training. Made one boring base camp after another. You acclimatized.

Your team members got sick with lung clots and quit.

You strapped on oxygen and wrapped yourself with rope. You wore dark goggles against snow blindness.

You wore clunky, cleated boots. You look like a spaceman. You could be on Mars.

Your heart’s beating funny, your lips are bleeding. Your blood is not working right; you feel sick. It’s minus 42 Fahrenheit.

But you got to the top of Mount Everest, over 29,000 feet, highest viewpoint on the planet.

You’re king of the hill.

The sky is so blue it’s dark; you’re close to space. Climbers have died trying to reach this viewpoint. You’re nearly dead yourself.

Without oxygen, you’d keel over. But you’re here. Nobody’s higher. Wait a second….

A shadow passes over you.

Above, a flock of geese cuts in front of the sun. Geese? Above? Your goggles aren’t lying.

The geese are flapping along in V-formation, hundreds of feet higher than where you’re standing. For them, it’s another day at the office.

The wind that’s hitting you with 90 mile-per-hour gusts is at their backs. They streak over, fat and happy.

You look up, sucking oxygen, leaning on your ice pick like an old man leans on a cane.

Maybe you need to know your place. You aren’t made for this. You’re no Bar-headed Goose.

“Bar headed.” Good name. Makes you want to head for a bar, just thinking about what they do.

You might be imagining that you’re on Everest, but there’s nothing imaginary about these two-fisted birds.

Bar-headed Geese are known for high altitude migration over the Himalayas. Their blood has special hemoglobin. They laugh at anoxia as they fly in the jet plane lane.

From your viewpoint on the mountain top, they might notice you. But to them, you wouldn’t be king of the hill.

Just some clown that’s beneath them.

This big bird book came in the mail. It came here because we write about birds, and people who are interested, including you, read the stuff we write.

The publishers of this big book, Princeton University Press, figure that if I write about it, you’ll see it and maybe you’ll buy the book. I’m an ad guy. I understand this.

I’ve worked, at one time or another, for Madison Avenue ad agencies. New York ad agencies, Chicago ad agencies. My territory included big board rooms and big bored rooms.

All the ad nuttiness you see in movies about ad agencies. The running for planes and trains. The filming in Hollywood. The demanding clients and eccentric bosses. The eccentric clients and demanding bosses.

The fondness for an unpleasant liquid called midnight oil. The fondness for a pleasant liquid called vodka. Whoa. How’d I get on that rant…

Oh, yeah, I understand advertising. The need to put a product in front of its target audience. Well, Princeton also understands. I was happy to get this big bird book.

Due to a condition I can only describe as weirdness, I will sit down and read a bird book like a novel. Always did. Even as a kid.

I also would sit down and read a novel like it was a bird book.

What the hell does that mean? Try it some time. It means you notice field markings about all the characters, you remember their names, and look for their types and traits when you get out into the world.

Getting out into the world becomes really necessary when you work in advertising. Or read bird books like they’re novels. Or read novels like they’re bird books.

Life inside the cubicles, conference rooms, airports, studios and martini hangouts of the ad world does nothing more than make a guy want to get into the woods as fast as possible, as often as possible and as deep as possible.

To get away from the smoke, tech talk, buzz words, booze buzz, flip charts, the power points, meetings, phones…the eccentrics around you and the eccentric inside you.

And reading novels like they’re bird books or bird books like they’re novels makes you want to jump out of your skin and your old chair, and head for the woods.

Indoor work and reading are fine and necessary, but make outdoor exploration even more necessary. Whoa, how’d I get on that rant…

Oh, yeah. I’ve got a book report due.

Like any schoolboy, I’m stalling. But that’s not fair to the big book. I love the book.

I really respect Princeton University Press. The name “Princeton” alone, is worthy of respect, being in the Ivy League and all. I wonder why they call it the Ivy League. All college buildings have ivy growing on them…

And the word “press,” well, it means all kinds of things. Like in basketball, for example. When I used to play, and man, did I have a shot, I would hate the full court press.

Or even the half court press. Hate doing it to the other team. Hate having it done to our team. I was all about shooting. Playing offense. Whoa….the book.

It’s called the Crossley ID Guide. Eastern Birds. It’s the best-looking bird book I ever saw. Too big to carry around for some people, but a two-fisted lug can manage it. This book’s not a field guide anyway; it’s an “ID” guide. It’s made for birding at home. You can read it like a novel.

With pictures. A million pictures of a million birds from a million angles in their actual surroundings.

For better book reports about this big book, please check just about every other bird blog in the world. They were sent copies, too, and are better at this than I am.

Meanwhile, I’m going to curl up with my Crossley ID Guide. Then go for a long hike.

I’m in the snowy woods north of Chicago. I see deer grouped tightly nearby. Their winter coats are surprisingly thick. I notice fox and coyote tracks.

Foxes keep a low profile these days. Smart. Coyotes are on the increase, and can be cannibals. Just ask the little dogs in my neighborhood. If you can find ‘em.

While I stand here freezing my butt off, my mind wanders to a warmer place…

I remember hiking in the summertime Gore Range of northern Colorado. I like Scarlet Tanagers, and had hoped to see one of their cousins there, a Western Tanager.

My wife and I were enjoying mountain views at every turn in the trail. The peaks were snow covered. High altitude snow, bright in the June sun.

There were other memorable views: In the distance below, I saw a couple skinny-dipping in a stream. The girl was Colorado personified. The guy, well, who cares?

Later, there was a Western Tanager. Very close. On a branch, eye level. It was like he’d put himself there to be seen. My wife whispered, “Quick, get your camera.”

The camera was in our Jeep, way down the trail. I could never get it, get back, and expect the tanager to still be there. I said, quietly, “No way. Too far.”

She urged, “Quick, go get the camera.” I sighed. Many minutes later I was back with it. Beyond all reason, the tanager had waited. I aimed, focused, “click.”

National Geographic would never be calling. But there was a moment between the bird and me.

The tanager had looked in my lens, clearly saying, “What the hell took you so long.” Then he flew.

The memory of that moment is strong in these cold woods today. The tanager had waited.

My wife reminds me that she played a major role in this.  She’s right, as usual. You shouldn’t always assume that an opportunity will fly away.

That’s my daily sighting, although it didn’t happen on this day. Nothing much happened today. But it was still great to be in the winter woods. It’s always great.

My banjo teacher, Bob, sent me a copy of National Geographic’s February issue.

There’s an article in it about dinosaur feathers. Bob probably thinks I could put its pages to better use than the pages of sheet music he gives me, which I mangle.

He’s right. The article is made for bird watchers.

Last September, I wrote “A kick in the Jurassic.” It resulted from my seeing a Nova TV show reporting new evidence about birds being evolved dinosaurs.

Not evolved from dinosaurs. Evolved dinosaurs.

I liked hearing that these monsters from time-travel adventure might’ve had feathers. And we’ve been wrong to think of them as reptilian looking.

Now, Nova’s initial explorations into this subject have been supported and updated by some detailed reporting in National Geographic.

The article shows dinosaurs with feathers. There are fossil photos, too, and their meaning is explained. A gatefold reveals the family tree of dinosaurs and birds, and dinosaur-birds. It’s almost like a field guide. Good illustrations.

The science is pretty clear: there were dinosaurs that looked like gigantic walking, stomping, roaring birds. Lots of colors, too. Like I said, you could use it as a Jurassic field guide.

The old view of dinosaurs as oversized lizard-oids, might have been plain wrong. Spielberg probably shouldn’t have had his stars running around naked.

If these large feathered animals morphed into pint-sized sapsuckers, bustards, gnatcatchers and turkeys, cool. Saber tooth tigers the size of humvees gave way to cougars. Sloths the size of elephants became sloths the size of raccoons. Evolution goes where it wants. T-Rex is an Emu.

If you doubt this connection between birds and dinosaurs, just get up close to the next Great Blue Heron you see. Look into its eyes.

The killing grounds of early earth will stare back at you. Better not stand too close to that beak.