We hear about odd birds in odd places.

A Green-tailed Towhee was spotted on a Rhode Island beach in winter. This West Coast bird is not just out of its range; it’s out of its mind.

An Anna’s Hummingbird is in Pennsylvania. Another warm weather bird that belongs in the west.

There’s enthusiasm for these sightings among birdwatchers who are also twitchers. Twitchers go where the odd birds are.

Oddities happen. Years ago, I saw a buck with a misshapen antler over its face. Like a pretzel that came out of the factory funny.

And I saw a Canada Goose grazing with others, even though it had an arrow through it. Oddities remind us that the world’s not always okay.

By contrast, I saw Cardinals and Black-capped Chickadees today on the sunny side of our snowed-in home. They were drinking from our icicles. Nothing odd about them. They belong here. They’re expected.

If I saw an odd bird hanging out with them, a Scott’s Oriole for example, I’d have mixed feelings. It would be like watching an accident. My twitcher friends get twitchy eyelids hearing this.

When I was on Mount Lemmon in Arizona, I saw a Scott’s Oriole. It was supposed to be there. This yellow and black bird verified my location. All was right with the world.

When you get off a plane in Denver, there are Black-billed Magpies. In England you see Great Tits. Like I say, birds verify our sense of place.

I’m not wild about a western hummingbird freezing its ass off in Pennsylvania, or a towhee in Rhode Island. These guys have a screw loose. I hear about them, and think of the deformed antler or skewered goose.

I prefer the cold Chickadees and Cardinals surviving on icicles where they live. Nothing odd in that.

Footnote:

Speaking of odd happenings in odd places. Why should Green Bay and Pittsburgh play the Super Bowl in Dallas? Not their territory.

The trophy should go to the team that wins, say, the best two out of three games. And they should play in their own stadiums.

Odd sightings may make nature interesting. But nature can’t help it. Football can. Enough oddness. Green Bay and Pittsburgh busting their butts in Dallas?

Most fans won’t even be able to go. They’re not twitchers.

A town in California is considering adding birdsong to its streets via loudspeakers. To make citizens happier.

It’s California, so this might be no joke.

What if it catches on? What if big cities like Chicago and New York fill their streets with pre-recorded birds?

And which birds would be singing? White-throated Sparrows or Hermit Thrushes? American or European Robins? Nightingales at night? Screaming Bald Eagles when we’re militant? Mourning Doves on a sad day? Maybe a vote should be taken.

And what about unforeseen side effects…

Real birds could think rivals are encroaching. Avian turf wars are common, and this could push nervous birds over the edge. Maybe some would just pack up and leave. Let humans have their stupid electronic birds, we’re outta here.

But even if the town’s birds were indifferent, would the canned song really make people feel happier?

Some people like it quiet. Others will find the taint of elevator music in all this. Maybe background sounds aren’t the government’s business. Unless we’re talking about lawn blowers at 7 am.

But as goofy as the bird song initiative might be, there’s some logic in it.

When ad guys shoot outdoor TV commercials, they add birdsong. It’s a stock sound effect called “sweetening.” Imagine two commercials, one with birds and one without. You’ll like the bird version better.

It’s more finished, more real, happier. Yeah, happier.

And when you’re putting a music track behind the action, you have certain instruments that can do the same “happier” thing. Like the banjo.

I’ve done this when making TV commercials. I’ve added a subtle banjo riff in with the other instruments. It makes the music sound American. And happy.

Maybe that town in California could skip the birdsong project with all the questions it raises, and just add banjo to their streets.

A little “Oh Susanna” twanging along as you walk to the corner store has got to make the day sunnier, and you happier.

And if you’re lucky enough to also hear a Hermit Thrush, you’ll know it’s real. Another reason to be happy.

It’s below zero and snowing. That shouldn’t stop a two-fisted birdwatcher from tramping around the woods.

But combine it with the biggest football game ever, and this will be a stay-at-home Sunday.

That doesn’t mean there won’t be bird sightings.

Just when I think that avifauna will not figure into my day, I find a folded NY Times travel section at my door.

It was put there by my friend, Avi. This guy’s name is not short for “avian” or anything relating to birds. The newspaper story is about birds of India, the place of Avi’s birth.

Looking at photos on the crinkled page, I could sense jungle humidity, smell rivers; imagine the sounds of insects and unknown birds.

The smoky red sun is near. So are cobras, jackals, elephants and birds created by Picasso—a guy who was not Indian, but who took liberties with the way we see things.

A Paradise Flycatcher looks like he’s been assembled with the parts of four other birds. There are Malabar Whistling Thrushes, White-throated Kingfishers, small Jungle Owlets (not baby owls, this is the name of the owl species) and the tallest flying bird in the world, the Sarus Crane. Dr. Seuss helped Picasso with that one.

The biggest crane made me stop thinking about the biggest football game ever—at least for a few minutes. And I felt uncharacteristically bird-illiterate.

I’ve seen birds in Europe and Russia, the Pacific, Caribbean and Alaska. I know what it’s like to visit another guy’s field guide. So what caused this feeling of avian illiteracy? India!

There are 1,200 species there, compared to our 900. And most are exotic. There are two ways to deal with this.

One, we say, “weird!” and forget about it, comfortable with our daily Red-tailed Hawks, White-breasted Nuthatches and Great Blue Herons. The red, white and blue.

Or, two, we say: Let’s go to India. A whole different ball game of avifauna awaits in the Western Ghats…the jungles and shorelines of Goa where I’ve heard there are lions. And in the Annamalai Hills where there are Hornbills.

Not sure I’m up for it, but if I ever do go bird watching in India, I’ll ask Avi to come along for the ride. He’s got the right name for it.

Today I looked at two Cardinals in a sleet storm. The sleet changed to snow, and the temperature dropped through the thirties, twenties and into the teens.

Then the wind started. This is Chicagoland. Another way of saying: where hell freezes over.

We’re used to it. The Cardinals are used to it. I gotta hand it to them. They’re the type that would sit through a Bears game at frozen Soldier Field.

Whoa. Cardinals, Bears; we’re mixing our NFL teams.

Sure, there’s an NFL team called the Cardinals, but they play in Arizona where it’s warm.

Little known fact: these Arizona Cardinals were once the tough old Chicago Cardinals, and played in freezing Comiskey Park on the city’s South Side.

My dad went to see them there, and bought hotdog sandwiches, two in each hand. Not to eat, although he wanted to. But to stuff inside his shirt for insulation.

A two-fisted football fan.

Back to the avian brand of Cardinals…I looked at these colorful birds and thought: you’re good-looking, red, with the pointy crest. Nobody’d blame you if you headed out of town with the orioles, tanagers, swallows and thrushes.

But you’re too ballsy.

I see other die-hards, too. Crows, Juncos and wild northern Robins that tough it out here in flocks.

And the unsung heroes: drab House Sparrows, also known as Weaver Finches. These are common worldwide, so they must be doing something right. Same goes for Rock Doves, known as city pigeons, or rats with wings. Give ‘em a break; they’re street tough.

I also see unflappable Herring Gulls sitting on Lake Michigan icebergs. Chickadees, Titmice, you know the cast of characters; you’ve got it down cold.

Plus hardheaded Hairy, Downy and Red-bellied Woodpeckers. Imagine pecking a tree when it’s frozen.

We gotta hand it to these tough birds. I raise a glass to them. I need it after walking around in the cold.

The birds don’t need that kind of help; they’re the two-fisted ones. The Cardinals, and all the others who go about their business when hell freezes over.

This happens when you go bird watching: You see more than birds.

The deer peeking around a tree struck me as funny. Looked like she was trying to hide. But the tree was skinny and she wasn’t.

I had a camera that day, and got the shot. I keep this picture on the wall in a room where I work out.

Every time I look at it I smile. I’ve looked at it a thousand times.

This gets me wondering about why we stay interested in the same old things…

Yesterday I saw an American Kestrel on a wire. I stopped the car. Got my binoculars, and looked.

Cool sight. A “sparrow hawk,” as it used to be called. Fierce eyes. Tan like a cougar, with blue and gray markings. Two-fisted talons, the talons of a welterweight.

The Kestrel stared at me: “What the hell you loookin’ at?” Then turned his head, opened his wings and lifted off like a warplane.

I’ve seen Kestrels before. I’ve seen a lot of birds. It’s memorable when you see one for the first time. You lose your bird virginity, so to speak. But you don’t lose your interest.

I remember the first time I saw a Bald Eagle. Near a lake in the North Woods. I was excited. But the second time, I still was excited.

My first Scarlet Tanager was a score. But so were the tanagers I saw after that. Even the ones I saw last May, though they were far from my first.

Serious birders keep a list of species. I do that, too, in the form of check marks in an old field guide.

But I also keep a casual list of repeat sightings in the back of my mind. Every time I see an interesting bird, a little click registers somewhere.

Another Red-breasted Nuthatch. Another Hairy Woodpecker. Another Turkey Vulture. I don’t have exact figures, but I appreciate each sighting.

Maybe some day I’ll get jaded and stop raising my binoculars. Maybe I’ll figure, “Seen it all.” But not yet.

So I looked at the American Kestrel on a wire, and he looked back. I thought: What’s better than seeing a thousand Kestrels?

Seeing a thousand and one.

There’s a story on this website called “Tits.” The word means different things to different people. And the story gets a lot of visits.

“Nuts” is a similar word. Several meanings. This word has come to mind recently for three reasons.

One.

Our latest Hidden Bird Contest features a Clark’s Nutcracker. It’s pretty well hidden. I thought it would be hard to find, so I headlined the contest: “A hard nut to crack.”

Turns out, I was nuts to think that.

In the first week of January, we had more people find the hidden bird than we usually get in a whole month.

Two.

This got me thinking about the first time I found a Clark’s Nutcracker, myself.

It was in a pine tree on the side of a Colorado mountain. Not that hard to spot, and I got a good look.

I also saw a Mountain Bluebird that day, another first. I took its picture.

This fuzzy photo doesn’t cut it when compared to those taken by digital-telescope cameras.

A real photographer might bust a guy’s nuts for showing a shot like this. But I never said I was good. Just that I was there.

Three.

We discovered an email problem around here, and it drove me nuts.

It seems that several comments sent to us recently had been trapped by an over-zealous spam filter, and they were auto-deleted.

We receive most emails okay, but even one that gets lost is unacceptable. If it were yours, you wouldn’t have gotten a reply.

You would have felt “e-gnored.” (“Ignored by email.”) If you’ve been “e-gnored,” it was unintentional, and won’t happen again.

Thanks for sending in your comments, and for playing our Hidden Bird Contest.

I still think this month’s contest is a hard nut to crack. But even if I’m wrong, it’s always cool to spot a Clark’s Nutcracker.

My wife and I are walking in the woods with a young couple we’d invited over. The couple’s in love, about to get engaged.

I know my way around, and could navigate these woods in the dark. But it’s bright daylight. That’s why it’s unusual that we see an owl.

Romeo and his girl spot it, and point it out. I’ve seen owls at night, but this was a first. It looked down on us, awake, but without much interest.

Owls are above it all. They’ve even got an edge over eagles. This is because they can play eagle, either day or night.

They’ve got broad wings for soaring. And they can pick up animals of all sizes with steel-trap talons. (You wouldn’t want to shake hands with a two-fisted owl; you’d come away bloody, or minus a finger).

Owls have a reputation for being wise. But they also have a reputation for bad luck if spotted during the day. Well, it wasn’t me or my wife who found it; we were just along for the ride. Would that matter?

This Great Horned Owl had miles on it. Shaggy, dirty gray. Huge, with eyes that didn’t mind daylight, and stared you down. Its “horns” stuck up hard and pointed. The chest was broad.

Interesting as hell, but not a good-looking bird.

We’d also seen a Red-headed Woodpecker, White and Red-breasted Nuthatches, several Hermit Thrushes, and a shy Woodcock that walked like a chicken.

There was beaver sign. Deer were in the distance. Coyotes had our scent, and knew our plans.

As we wandered back to the parking area I thought about the bad luck thing. Would our car be there? Would we have a flat? Would we have unseen tick bites that would bring disease later? Was there such a thing as owl-induced bad luck?

Bull.

It was a great hike. We saw some birds and got to spend a couple of hours outdoors with the loving couple. When they broke up a few days later, I saw no connection to the owl sighting. At least, nothing I’d admit.

Space. Cold. Goes on as far as you can see. It’s not the final frontier. It’s the only frontier: the wild land where I hike around, looking for signs of life.

It’s a mix of fields and woods along a river. I know its trails, and even know my way off-trail. I’m here on this day to see what there is to see. Like always.

It’s a new year. Maybe I’ll start it by finding something notable. But this is a slow time for birds. A lot of them are on vacation.

I’m content to spot the usual Dark-eyed Juncos, Black-capped Chickadees and Cardinals. Also, the Downy Woodpecker that likes to hide on the other side of any tree.

Still, there’s always a chance that something uncommon will show.

I’ve seen a Northern Shrike here. Also, Horned Larks, Snow Buntings, Evening Grosbeaks. And a Pileated Woodpecker, big, with a prehistoric head.

A Great Blue Heron glowers at me while ill at ease on solid ice. He’s clearly pissed that he hasn’t headed south.

I like this hike, even if it turns up nothing new. 2011 is young yet. “2011.” Sounds like science fiction. At least there are still birds, still wild spaces, in this futuristic year.

(See The Ferruginous Hawk for some fictional musing about this, if you want).

These wild spaces are timeless. They look the same as they did last year, a hundred years ago, five hundred years ago.

I move through a snowy clearing where I notice tracks made by deer and coyote living out wild lives in 2011. A Red-tailed Hawk circles overhead.

Wildlife activity in here is so predictable that it’s kind of reassuring. This is because the change of year hasn’t changed a thing.

This space is what it was, what it’s always been. Just what I expected. Sometimes, getting what you expect is all you can expect. No complaints.

In fact, I’ll try to get back tomorrow for more of the same. Next year, too, not that another new year would matter here.

Disney World in frigid Florida. We’re here to celebrate the season with a family vacation.

I’m doing “naked bird watching,” which means birding without binoculars.

I get questions: “Hey, are those crows?” “No,” I say, “Turkey Vultures.”

Vultures are common as mouse ears at Disney.

As we move around, I notice Boat-tailed Grackles, Black Vultures, Little Blue Herons, and a Limpkin on a golf course.

I don’t say “Limpkin” to anyone. Stupid bird names make bird watchers sound stupid, themselves. Limpkin?

The kids in our clan ask about stork-like birds that walk around the place. ”They’re Ibises,” I say.

Soon, a five-year-old is shouting, “Can I give a potato chip to the Ibises?” This turns heads.

As days pass, I’m asked about other birds. I have all the answers, but don’t worry: I’m headed for a fall.

Meanwhile, I’m quick with names: “A Snowy Egret,” I say, “A Common Egret, Forster’s Terns, a Bufflehead, a Water Pipit, a Man o’ War.”

(I even spot an armadillo in the palmettos. Not all wildlife sightings involve wings.)

When somebody incorrectly points out a cormorant, I say, with great patience: “No, that’s an Anhinga.”

Hubris is raising its fat head in the land of the Ibis.

Then, one bright cold morning there’s a flock on Bay Lake that’s so unusual, even my most uninterested kin are interested. “What are those?”

And I just don’t know.

They look like ducks, but ride too low. They’re cormorant-like, but aren’t. Not Anhingas. Loons don’t congregate. I’m silent.

There are thirty of them, floating in tight formation, watched by Ring-billed Gulls. They have an upward tilt to their heads, grayish light and dark plumage.

I’m stumped.

Later, I check my field guide. Horned Grebe. This was a tricky identification for two reasons.

In winter, Horned Grebes change from bright colors to gray. Also in winter, they tend to flock. I didn’t know that.

This worked out okay. For a while there, I was becoming an authority figure, and didn’t much like the feeling.

I’d rather be a father figure. Fathers, as we know, don’t necessarily have all the answers.

One of the reasons I got interested in bird watching as a kid is that I liked the idea of flying. Superman stuff.

When I started playing basketball, I worked to get enough spring so I could grab the orange metal hoop of a basket. It’s ten feet. I’m not quite six, so that’s flight. Sort of.

But the other night I saw a guy on a basketball court who really could fly.

Derrick Rose, a smallish guard on the Chicago Bulls wears the number one, and he’s number one on the team, maybe in the whole NBA. Because he flies.

Rose did a move that reminded me of a Northern Harrier I’d seen recently. Anti-gravity in action.

There’s a guy on the Lakers named Pau Gasol, seven foot something, and he reached high for a rebound, his gigantic wingspan making it easy.

Gasol’s hand was over the basket, about to scoop the ball as it came off the rim. Then Derrick Rose…rose.

He’s only six-three, so you’ve got to call it flying. He’s suddenly above Gasol. Rose’s hand is above the rim, and he grabs the rebound.

I had to rewind, see it again. My interest in bird watching and basketball had linked. This was a sport about flying, and here was a guy who could do it.

I’d seen Rose make amazing dunks before, and knew he could get up there, but this rebound over Gasol could’ve gone from the sports channel to the nature channel.

It’s about a Peregrine Falcon out-maneuvering a Turkey Vulture. A Blue Jay dive-bombing a Raven. Small outperforming big. Strong beating heavy. Flight beating height.

Years ago, there was a Celtics star actually named Bird. But he didn’t fly. When I watched Larry Bird, the phrase “bird watching” never occurred.

But watching Derrick Rose fly over Pau Gasol and snatch that rebound away, man, I thought about birds. I also thought about Superman, but this is a bird website.

So we’ll leave it at that.

In the grasslands of Colorado, I found myself trailing a Sharp-tailed Grouse. I had a long lens, and took its picture. Not great by today’s standards, but it grabbed the moment.

I was watching a grouse. Did that mean I was “grousing?” Hell, no. I know what grousing means. I’m well known for doing it. Just ask my wife.

This got me thinking about the word “birding.” I generally don’t use it, preferring the term “bird watching.”

I was grouse watching. Not grousing. I was bird watching, not birding. When I’m monkeying with something, I’m not watching monkeys. If I were, I’d call it monkey watching.

These days, there’s an increasingly popular practice of “verbing” nouns. See? The noun “verb” was just used as a verb.

Time out…

This is a two-fisted site. Discussion of English usage is going to wind up with a bloody nose if it’s not careful. So we’ll be quick.

Others may go “birding.” That’s cool. I like these birders. I’m impressed by how good some of them are. But I’m going to stick with “bird watching,” if it’s all the same. And it is.

This probably wouldn’t be worth discussing if “verbing” hadn’t gone too far recently. For example: A business acquaintance said he was “dialoguing” about something. Give me a break.

“Parenting” has wormed its way into common talk. (Yeah, “worm” can be a verb. But at least it doesn’t mean “worm watching”). Anyway, don’t parent; just be a parent.

One final example: “tasking.” Those toadies on TV’s “The Apprentice” are “tasked” to do some degrading thing, then they “task” each other, too.

Enough.

While hiking in Colorado I also saw a Golden Eagle, Steller’s Jays, a novel Gray Jay—uninteresting to look at, but a first for me—and I got close-up views of a Clark’s Nutcracker and Western Tanager.

I saw them while “bird watching.” Many people who share my interest in these sightings would call what I did “birding.” I guess there’s room enough out there for both terms. But you know how I feel.

Meanwhile, we’re done dialoguing about this.

I’m on the trail. It’s snowing. No birds. That’s okay. Before I’m done, maybe I’ll see some. For now, I’m just glad to be in the woods.

Sometimes, you need a break from the world of people and its problems. This morning, CNN was going on again about unemployment. I clicked off and came here.

Yesterday, an under-employed buddy wrote to say his job search had switched from plan B to plan C. Then he outlined plans D, E and F. This would be funny if there wasn’t truth in it.

But in the woods, there’s no CNN, no statistics, just snow, trees and maybe some birds. Then a thought starts to form…

There aren’t many birds in here. I hadn’t been seeing variety or numbers earlier in the year, either. Even during migrations, when the place should be crawling.

And it hit me: a lot of birds have lost their jobs, too.

The Red-headed Woodpecker I used to see in a dead tree near the creek? His position has been eliminated.

The Brown Thrasher I’d spot in a field near here every summer? His long-tailed, beady-eyed ass has been downsized. The field he worked in was manned by a skeleton crew of kingbirds, goldfinches, and a few sparrows.

Same thing with meadowlarks. I grew up seeing them everywhere, with their yellow and black chests. These guys must have taken early retirement.

I wade through the deepening snow, watching for unseen hollows and fallen sticks. You never know when something unexpected is going to trip you up.

I see cold Robins. I believe they miss the good old days when they’d winter further south, but they’re sticking it out. No travel budget?

There’s a Cardinal, still on the job. This red bird on a snowy branch is an ornament, and good for the spirit. I see some juncos, and a single crow with a good immune system. Nothing special.

I was hoping to find a Red Crossbill. This uncommon pinecone-eater could be here. I move to a stand of evergreens and wait. Let’s see if the crossbill still has a job.

But the way things are going, I count myself lucky to have seen that Cardinal.

I went into the woods to think through a problem. What was the problem? I’ll get to that in a minute.

The woods were gloomy and cold. The way I like them. No bugs, bare trees. Quiet. Other hikers are my kind of people. But it’s better in here without them.

There’s a damp smell of rotting leaves. The sky is gray, low and unfriendly. I have a buddy who gets happy when the sun shines. This isn’t his kind of day.

The woods mean serious business. They’re unconcerned with my presence or problems. If I keeled over, they’d just go to work on the new ground litter. This thought is interrupted by sudden movement…

A big hawk swoops across a clearing on my left, low to the ground, then arcs upward and lands on a branch. I get a good look. It glares back.

I said, “Who ya starin’ at.” I knew this bird. It had white on the small of its back. A bright and sizable patch. If this hawk were a girl it would have a curly tattoo there.

The hawk doesn’t smile at this thought. It’s pissed that I’m in these woods on a day when people don’t visit. Screw that. I’m here. And I know its name.

It’s a Northern Harrier, but I call it a Marsh Hawk. That’s what it was called when I was a kid. Bird namers—a sore point with me—changed this sensible name to the archaic “harrier.”

It blinks, turns in disdain and flies off without a sound.

I see a few other birds in the woods. If this were a movie they’d be extras. Little drab winter extras. Juncos and a Brown Creeper. A shy Downy Woodpecker. A flock of cold Robins wondering why they didn’t go south.

But it was the hawk’s movie.

I head to my car, leaving the murky forest on a day when nobody else wants to be there. I vaguely remember planning to think through a problem. What was it? Doesn’t matter any more. Couldn’t have been that important.

It’s a great day. I’m going home to watch football and have a few beers. I saw a Marsh Hawk. Also known as a Northern Harrier. We glowered at each other. No problem.

There’s a new birding blog started by a guy we know. He’s pretty good at this sort of thing. We contributed an article to it recently. The article is called: “The Ornithologist Who Started A War.”

It’s about a U.S. president who also happened to be a two-fisted bird watcher. Kind of fun to write; might be fun to read about. You decide.

The website is “North American Birding.” There’s a link to our story at the bottom of this post. If you’re interested, take a look, and from there you can explore the rest of  “North American Birding.”

Meanwhile, here’s a short excerpt from the piece…

“The Ornithologist Who Started A War.”

I saw a sign on my hike this morning. It said: “dedicated nature preserve.” I also saw a Fox Sparrow.

Those two things got me thinking about a nerd who changed his image and started a major war.

This guy’s more interesting than the Hairy Woodpecker, Red-Bellied Woodpecker, Dark-eyed Juncos and the shivering late-season Eastern Bluebird that I also saw.

The sign reminded me of him because he started a conservation movement resulting in national parks and bird sanctuaries.

The Fox Sparrow reminded me of him, because he knew one when he saw it, and even when he didn’t. We’ll get to that, but first…

If you think bird watchers have been saddled with a nerdy image in your lifetime, imagine what it must’ve been like to have that interest in 1870s America.

Then imagine that the bird watcher in question was a scrawny, squeaky voiced little guy with ever-present spectacles. The age-old image of a four-eyed dweeb……

To read the rest of the piece, click here.

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

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

I see a sparrow and figure it’s not worth a second look. But I glass it anyway. And, hey, there’s some unexpected white and yellow. It’s a White-throated Sparrow. Nothing rare, but not a backyard bird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anyway, I’m having an okay time. It’s not dismal on the trail. The air’s bracing. The exercise is working out the kinks. The woods are sort of the same, and sort of different. As always.

Today I drove by the wooden post where I saw a Barn Owl five years ago. I looked to see if the owl was still there.

When I was a kid we’d take family vacations to a state park, and one time as we drove in, we saw a man sleeping in the roadside weeds. My dad got out to make sure he was okay. In later years, when we passed that spot, we looked for the sleeping man.

In the parking area of Chicago’s Botanic Garden I saw an Orchard Oriole in the ‘90s. I remember the tree it was in. Every time I’ve visited since, I check it out. “Orchard Oriole tree.” A landmark.

Every time I drive through the intersection where a cop stopped me for speeding because I’d been following a Pileated Woodpecker, I think about the woodpecker. The cop had laughed: “Never heard that one before,” and let me off.

There’s a bridge on a forest trail. Once, I looked over its railing and saw a coiled snake below. Now, I always look for the snake when I’m on that bridge. If I were an old-time Native American, I might’ve named the bridge “Snake bridge.”

I, myself, might’ve been named, “Talks cop out of ticket because of woodpecker.” I’ve read that such sensible naming was tribal custom.

“Honey, I’ll meet you at the rock where Slobbering Cow Woman stepped in cougar crap.”

“No, babe, let’s meet where Little Big Nose swallowed a fly.”

I can’t walk in my usual wilderness without finding that I’ve privately named places based on birds and other interesting sightings.

There’s the tree where I saw a Yellow-breasted Chat. “Stupid name tree.” There’s the log that once had a Cooper’s Hawk on it. “Cooper’s log.”

There’s a field where a coyote met my eye, staring me down. A cool moment. A cool coyote. “Defiance field.”

I once saw a Northern Yellow-shafted Flicker on the ground at the trailhead where I park my car. Now, I always look for that bird when I pull into that spot.

It doesn’t need to be there. But it defines my parking space: The Northern Yellow-shafted Flicker memorial parking space. A landmark.

I’ve never seen a dead Red-tailed Hawk. This is okay. I don’t care much for the “circle of life.” I like to think these birds live forever.

I saw a healthy one circling over a field this morning. Its wings were huge, tail splayed. Its circling is what made me think about the “Circle of life,” I guess.

This is a song from “The Lion King” that curiously glorifies the transition between generations.

As I watched the big hawk I thought: it takes a lot of protein to fuel that mother. To build the bulk, the eyes, long feathers, sharp talons and beak. Protein was obtained, for sure.

This bird is living evidence of king-of-the-jungle action. It pounces, rips, and scarfs down squirrel, rabbit, skunk, snake, other birds; keep your cat indoors.

Once, I accidentally bumped into a Red-tail hidden in weeds as it pinned a pheasant to the ground. Both birds flushed, and flew in different directions. There was blood, but the pheasant got away.

I’ve seen Red-tailed Hawks in trees near freeways, holding a mouse in one claw and biting down. I’ve seen them dealing death, but never seen one dead.

This raises the tired question: “How come we never see dead birds, of any kind?” There are many birds, but few corpses.

Science geeks tell us that birds die privately in the wild, and are consumed by bugs and scavengers. Good. Who wants to wade around in a bunch of dead birds?

But what about Red-tailed Hawks? They’re common. I notice one per mile where I live. You’d think a dead one would be pretty hard to miss.

It would make a hell of a chalk outline. As large as my Springer Spaniel. When she died, we sure as hell noticed.

Whether or not we see dead hawks, they must be out there. I’m fine with never seeing one. I don’t like to think of them keeling over from old age, spoiled squirrel, gunshots from goons, disease or whatever.

I’d rather have them stay like the one I saw this morning: Circling around, with no end in sight.

TV news said, watch out, high winds are coming. “A dry hurricane,” one guy called it. We were told to batten down the lawn furniture, stay home, hide under the bed.

Gusts of 60 mph or more would pelt the Chicago area. We braced. (The random thought hit: if you’re a bird, you’re screwed. But we had our own problems).

What happened? We had a windy day. We’ve had such days before; we’ll have them again.

If media hadn’t warned that the sky was falling, we wouldn’t have paid much attention. Hell, it’s late October. You expect brisk weather.

Alarmists make people worried about everything. Wind today. Bedbugs yesterday, salmonella the day before.

I went looking for birds. Wanted to see if they’d be blown off trees, or if they could fly okay. They weigh nothing, while we’re hefty and anchored to the ground.

I saw some American Robins that were doing fine. These should be renamed “Yanks,” as mentioned previously. I saw flocks of Cedar Waxwings eating berries. Waxwings don’t look interesting from a distance, but when you get close, they are.

I saw American Crows in the sky and Dark-eyed Juncos on the ground. I saw a Cardinal, red against the gray trees.

I saw Red-tailed Hawks, Mourning Doves, White-throated Sparrows. And a big, streaked-up Fox Sparrow that I thought was a Wood Thrush at first.

These are not exotic sightings. If you wanted rare birds, sorry.

That’s not the point. The point is that birds don’t hear news bulletins, so on this killer-wind day, they went about their business. They managed fine. I watched.

The wind didn’t make it impossible for them to land on a branch. It didn’t blow them out of town. They didn’t expect a problem, and didn’t have one.

If you don’t hear that a catastrophe’s coming, it won’t. People who don’t read about bedbugs, don’t itch in bed. People who never hear about salmonella sandwiches won’t feel sick. Alarmist news is the sickness.

Birds don’t have that problem. They’re as indifferent to the elements as the elements are to them. They do what they want, every day, whether it’s nice or storming.

We’re not the two-fisted ones. They are.

Saw a pair of Canada Geese in front of my house this morning, and they got me thinking about sex appeal.

Why are these two together for life? She must’ve seen something in the guy.

Females look for things…

In my teens, I was in a softball game on a sandy field surrounded by woods. A lucky pitch came my way and I nailed it. The ball went over the trees and disappeared. People cheered.

After I rounded the bases, a cute blonde girl put her arm in mine. She said something about going for a walk, getting to know each other. I hadn’t noticed her before.

Something dawned in my teenage lizard brain then: “Hit ball good, get girl.”

Females are always out there, sizing up males. Ask the pretty Canada Goose on my lawn why she’s with her cranky mate. She’ll have a reason.

The good-at-baseball move might work for some, but there are interesting girls who look for other things.

Years later, in college I met a willowy, brown-haired girl. We went for a walk in the woods and I stopped to look at a bird. She asked me about it.

I said it was a Chestnut-sided Warbler, or maybe I was looking at a Great-crested Flycatcher, don’t remember. I’d seen a lot that day.

I told her about birds, and how I’d rather be in the woods instead of back on campus where college life could be corny. She said, “A Chestnut-sided what?”

There was a look in her eye that the blonde had after I’d knocked the crap out of a baseball. And a new thought dawned in the lizard brain: “Know cool stuff, get girl.”

This girl grew to enjoy wild places, and we walked in the woods a lot. I pointed out the birds by name. She liked that. A million years later, my wife still likes it.

Your trail starts in a dying long-grass prairie where White-throated Sparrows mix with White-crowned Sparrows, but you don’t stop to look.

The trail goes into woods, and you follow. It runs along a dirty-green river that’s carrying leaves downstream. Trees have fallen, and lay rotting into the ground. It’s colorful in the woods, even on this gray day. No surprise. It’s October.

Being on the trail, looking for birds as they play hard-to-get is fun. Actually, fun’s not the right word. The right word is probably something like: “reassuring.”

It’s reassuring to be in a place that never changes. A place of no time, no surprises. The man-made world is full of change. It makes you want a couple of beers. Or a deep vodka martini.

(Doesn’t matter if a martini’s dry, or shaken or stirred, or any of that James Bond bullshit; it should just be deep. And forget the olives, especially if they have bleu cheese in them. An olive doesn’t taste great to begin with, and stuffing it with rotten milk makes it worse).

Yeah, the forest is reassuring compared to human habitat, which can make you nuts because of its unpredictability. Businesses go belly up. Friends go belly up. You hear about accidents, you see people get sick, you see your parents get old.

There’s commotion in concrete-land. Angry factions, bus fumes, little surprises like parking tickets and computers that freeze. Why dwell on this stuff? Go for a walk in the woods.

They’re always the same.

Wait—you say that the woods change? Right now they’re turning color, losing leaves, seasonally adjusting. Yeah, of course. That’s no surprise. Just the opposite. It’s expected, and like we said, reassuring.

The bird population is seasonally adjusted, too. Orioles are disappearing. A few Eastern Bluebirds hang around—the tough ones—but most are scarce. Juncos with their white-sided tails are showing up. Robins are in flocks. You hear crows and see Blue Jays. It’s easier to see jays when leaves thin out.

If you’re lucky you see a Woodcock, and think, “Could it be a Snipe?” But you’ve never seen a Snipe, and are not sure they really exist.

This wild place is the place to be. Better than booze. Or almost. And that’s your “daily sighting:” the unsurprising woods in October.

As soon as you get off the trail, you’ll go home and raise a drink to the woods. Will it be a beer? A deep martini? Surprise yourself.