I never see nothin’ when I go to the woods.

Bad English? A double negative? Not so fast. It’s not the ignorant rant of an ignorant dropout.

It’s the ignorant rant of a guy who means what he says. I’ll explain in a moment.

On this dead quiet, hot & muggy day in the middle of a July 4th weekend, I went to the woods at noon, a stupid move.

I thought, maybe I’d spot a tanager in the trees. A meadowlark in the fields. A Cooper’s Hawk watching from a branch. Cormorants at the river.

But I felt the vibe as soon as I drove in: there’d be nothing. Mid-summer, mid-day, mid-nineties; it wasn’t smart to expect much.

Wildlife was off the clock. No birds to hear or see. No deer, fox, skunk, raccoon, coyote. No wind moved the trees or weeds. The place was like a still photograph.

I thought: sure, the freakin’ holiday weekend. What d’you expect? Even nature’s outa town.

I hiked anyway, sweating in the airless heat. There was nothing to see. But, as I said earlier, I didn’t see it. Nothing, that is.

As I walked, a big spider moved across the trail in front of me. It’s not a Pileated Woodpecker. But it’s not nothing.

I bent to take a good look. Interesting. If I’d seen one like that in my bedroom, I’d have had to remove it or never get to sleep.

Might’ve been a female Black Widow. Had a round abdomen with a fleck of red.

I watched it move safely off the trail and disappear into a woodpile. I was glad for the company.

And it proved that when you go into the woods, even on the dullest of days, you never see nothing.

I’d rather get bit by a cougar than a tick. With a cougar, you don’t have to wait to find out you’ve been attacked.

This morning I saw an Eastern Bluebird fly into a part of the woods I don’t normally enter.

But, it might not have been an Eastern Bluebird. I only got a quick glance. Its throat looked blue, which meant it could’ve been a Western Bluebird. Or something else.

I followed it, using a trail that’s little used. Knee-high grass was unavoidable. Further in, things got muddy.

Sometimes, you find yourself in an unvisited part of the woods, and it has a different quality of quietness. You feel that even animals and birds don’t come to this spot.

The deer and coyotes you’ve seen are in the usual places, near trails and open areas.

Birds, too, are back there, on the territory you know. Kingbirds, Summer Tanagers (sometimes), Indigo Buntings, cowbirds, several kinds of prairie sparrows; circling hawks and vultures.

But in this back-alley jungle, it was dead. No birds, no animals. Just high grass, heat and stillness. No mysterious blue bird, either.

When I returned to the main trail, I found a tick on my jeans, and brushed it away. I wondered about the ones I didn’t find.

Hate ticks.

A friend recently wrote in an email that “the ticks on the clock are getting faster and louder.” He meant time’s flying, and we better do something with our lives already.

His word “tick” comes back to me now. I picture the guy’s watch covered with ticks, the kind I found on the trail today.

Hate ticks. But, they’re a part of our clocks, and our woods. You have to live with ticks, both kinds. I’d rather have cougars.

Although, if you were pounced on by a cougar and you were holding his snapping jaw inches from your face, your fists filled with folds of his fur…know what you’d see?

Ticks. In his ears, around his eyes, crawling over your fingers.

I’m in Illinois but it feels like the Amazon.

I’m deep in the woods on a trail that’s not marked. There have been times when I didn’t like unmarked trails. You can get lost on them. But that won’t happen here; I know these woods.

Bird activity is modest. Mid-summer came in early summer, and the place is quiet.

I come to a fork in the trail. I stop. Stopping is good. When I blend into the stillness I see birds.

Swainson’s Thrush. A Catbird. A Red-eyed Vireo. A Great-crested Flycatcher, although its crest isn’t great and it’s not catching flies.

There’s a raccoon hole in a tree, high up. Young raccoons are peeking out. Better there than in my attic.

Mosquitoes have figured out that I’m not moving, and have come in to bite. Gotta get going. But which way?

Do I want to head down toward the river where there will be beaver sign and maybe a beaver to see?

Or, do I want the trail that runs along a pasture where I’ll see grouse and maybe a coyote who will look back over his shoulder, as he’s done before when I’ve seen him in the pasture.

This coyote’s steady gaze said, “Screw you, two-legs, and get out of here unless you’re going to lie down and become edible.” The eyes of a coyote speak eloquently.

Speaking of eloquent speaking, this decision about which trail to choose reminds me of a poem, “The road not taken,” by Robert Frost.

It was an easy metaphor about Frost’s decision to live a life of art. At the moment, I don’t care about his life of art, or his poem. There’s only so much room for poetry on a website called “two-fisted.”

I pick the path that’ll take me toward the river. It’s a good day to see beaver dams, and some colorful Wood Ducks. I don’t care if they’re not there. I’ve seen them before.

What I care about is walking this trail in the Illinois Amazon, being part of the green quiet, and making decisions that can’t be right or wrong.

Saw a Sora.

That’s not a tongue twister. It’s a bird. Sora. A kind of rail, a small swamp bird.

Soras aren’t rare. Still, people don’t see them much. I call them medium rare, like a good steak.

This gets me thinking about rareness. And, by contrast, the ordinary birds I notice.

Tree Swallows, Eastern Bluebirds, Indigo Buntings, Brown-headed Cowbirds, Northern Orioles, Scarlet Tanagers, Cardinals and Blue Jays.

Friends in the serious birding world are yawning.

They’re out with scopes, going after Dunlins, Kittiwakes, Purple Sandpipers, Anhingas; lost or adventurous birds that are really rare.

I rarely do that.

Have I become lazy? Is that the two-fisted way? Hell, the two-fisted way is any way you want.

You tramp around in the wild, and mainly don’t play into a stereotype. (See “Ain’t me” on North American Birding).

Sometimes, you spot rare birds. I saw a Smooth-billed Ani on gray pebbles in the Bahamas. A beak to remember.

I saw a Kiskadee in Bermuda. Guillemots in Alaska. Brazilian Cardinals and Indian Mynas in Hawaii.

Okay, anybody can see exotic birds in faraway places. But I saw the Sora near Chicago.

In the same suburban forest, I saw two other medium rare birds on different days: an American Woodcock and a Summer Tanager.

My hikes in these local wilds aren’t rare, themselves. So I usually see the usual cast of characters.

The Tree Swallows, Eastern Bluebirds and others I mentioned at the top. I also see vultures, kestrels, kingbirds, goldfinches, orioles…

These birds don’t blow up your skirts, as they say in the ad business.

But I keep wandering in the same buggy, muddy, wild-smelling timeless old woods and fields, and I’m fine with them.

Sometimes I see a Sora. And I think: Hey, medium rare.

I grew up in a big city where the only wildlife we had were pigeons, rats, and kids who broke windows with rocks.

On the way to school when I was eight, I saw a Cardinal and followed it. I went through alleys. I climbed fences. Lost track of time. Lost sight of the bird.

I was tardy getting to school. That’s a weird word, tardy. The only place you hear it is in a school.

But I knew why I followed the Cardinal, and felt no apology was necessary. To teachers or anybody.

It was wild. The closest thing in the city to a wild animal. If it had been a lion, I’d have been happier. But I took what I could find.

Now, after a lifetime of noticing birds and chasing them around, I realize that the city and suburbs are full of these wild animals.

Recently, on the way to work, I noticed a deer carcass at the side of the expressway. It had exposed ribs with shreds of meat on them, and there was the bumpy spinal column.

I figured coyotes, foxes, crows; all kinds of opportunists had been at work on this car-killed deer. It’s good to know there are animals in the night that make a living off such things.

As I drove further, I saw a Turkey Vulture down on the roadside grass before the next exit. It might’ve been resting there, its belly full of venison.

Aw, hell. I swerved onto the exit ramp.

I had to get to a meeting downtown, something about making TV commercials, something pretty important. But screw it. I wanted to see this vulture up close.

When I circled back to the spot where I’d seen it, nothing. The big old vulture must have spread those big old wings and took off.

But it had been there. It made the city and suburbs a better place, less humanized. A little more like a jungle movie, my favorite kind.

Okay, no vulture. I headed back. But, a U-turn wasn’t possible, so I was forced to drive miles out of my way.

I realized, when I finally got on course and was speeding toward the city skyline, that I was going to be late for my meeting.

I thought, hey I’m going to be tardy. Screw ‘em. Nobody uses that word any more.

*     *     *

I got interested in birds because, like every primitive human since cave days, I saw them flying and wanted to do that myself.

After a while, I knew one kind from another. I went to the woods, rivers, fields and beaches. Looking up.

It was a great way to get away from the mess that is the human world. Hiking, wilderness walking, bird watching, animal watching, all that, became a habit.

If it involved mud, strenuous exercise, and the kind of two-fisted adventure that made me read books about Henry Morton Stanley, well…cool.

Recently, there was a story in the news about a dog from North Smithfield, Alabama who had a two-fisted adventure. It involved flying.

This dog, Mason, was picked up by a tornado that destroyed the family home, and he was carried away.

If I’d been bird watching in a nearby county, maybe looking for an Ivory-billed Woodpecker, I might’ve seen this dog fly overhead.

Yeah, if I was looking for an extinct woodpecker, or following a common Turkey Vulture, I might have seen Mason in the sky.

He crash-landed somewhere. Might have been a hundred miles away, and limped home.

Weeks later, when his owners returned to sift through the rubble, they found Mason sitting on what was left of their porch.

Starving, and with two badly broken legs, he smiled up at them and feebly wagged his tail. Vets used screws and braces in a 3-hour operation. Now, Mason’s walking again.

That’s a two fisted dog. A dog that flew. A dog to remember.

Another dog to remember is the spunky little guy named Dante, my next-door neighbor until recently. We don’t have a picture of Mason, but we do have Dante. He’s the one on the right.

Like the kids’ movie title says, “All dogs go to heaven.” But some come back.

Meanwhile, we’ll keep bird watching.

Trick question: how far can you walk into the woods?

Around here, in early June, the woods feel like August. Hot, humid, quiet. I’m walking in a loop through a wilderness of old forest and fields with a river running through it. My path curves.

Hey, there’s a Swainson’s Thrush. It doesn’t fly.

By picking trails that loop around and back, I’m always moving forward. A different way to hike, I guess, would be to walk for a while, then do an about-face, and return. Yeah…but I don’t like U-turns.

There’s a Hairy Woodpecker. Too big to be a Downy. Too still to be normal. But in this heat, birds are just sitting.

Thinking about the word “loop” reminds me of the Chicago Loop. This is also a stamping ground of mine. It’s the cluster of skyscrapers circled by a loop of train tracks. Big, tall, tough, two-fisted Chicago.

Hey, an Eastern Bluebird in a clearing. A Tree Swallow on a reed.

I’m not going to see a Scissors-tailed Flycatcher today. Or a Purple Gallinule down by the river. Such improbable sightings are occasionally reported on birders’ forums.

If I ever see something that rare in here, I’ll stop thinking about loops, and report the sighting right away.

Meanwhile, I look behind me to see if I’m alone on this quiet trail.

In the Chicago Loop, a guy I know was walking to the train one night and didn’t look behind him. He felt a gun barrel on the back of his neck. He heard, “Don’t turn around. Gimme your watch and wallet.”

My friend walked away without these things. His back crawled, he said, expecting a bullet. Nothing happened. Except he had a good story.

In the woods there are coyotes and maybe cougars. Plus, the possibility of dangerous humans. Screw ‘em. Just makes the place more interesting to walk through.

That’s what I did this morning. I walked through the woods. I saw some hot, quiet birds, and thought about the word “loop.”

After a while, I walked out. Which brings up the trick question. Whether you backtrack, or loop around the way I did, you can only walk INTO the woods half way.

The mystery about my dog and the big dog has been solved.

Took a good crack of thunder to do it. A crack of thunder that shook my house. My old Springer Spaniel wouldn’t have liked the sound of it.

I’m not in the woods during this storm. Not that weather fazes me much.

I’ve gone hiking, bird watching, animal watching, river watching, all those things, in all kinds of weather. But not in thunderstorms.

In hundred and ten-degree heat I followed Gambel’s Quails through an Arizona desert.

When the temperature was below zero I saw a flock of Snow Buntings on a frozen field in Michigan.

I watched an Orchard Oriole during steady rain in a suburban Chicago forest.

Nothing was much cooler than seeing Wild Turkeys drift out of dense fog in Wisconsin.

Weather’s part of the natural scene. I like all kinds. Even took college courses in it. I bore people about cold fronts.

All that aside, I stay inside when there’s thunder outside.

Which reminds me of my dog, and her mysterious behavior.

Whenever she’d hear thunder, she’d crawl under a table, a bed, our legs. She even locked herself in a bathroom.

But this was a brave dog. Once she took off after a herd of deer. We don’t know what she’d have done if she caught up with them.

She’d bark at horses and make them jump.

She wasn’t faint hearted. We always wondered, in the years of her long life, why she was freaked out by only one thing: thunder.

Today, when that sound shook our house, rattled my bones, I got the answer.

The sound outside started with a growl, then exploded into a big, really big, atmospheric bark. We know what it was, of course.

But if you’re a dog, what does it sound like to you?

The news that Bob Dylan is turning seventy got to me. The picture in my head is of a wild-haired, folk-rock rebel.

Now this guy who was once the voice of the seventies is going to be in his seventies.

A skinny Great Blue Heron is standing in a pond near my house. His plumage is messed by the wind. He looks beaten up by time.

I wonder how old this bird is. Herons can be over twenty.

One thought leads to another. The old heron reminds me of Bob Dylan. And about how time keeps moving people, herons and everything else into the future.

A song pops into my head. “Time…keeps on slippin’ slippin’ into the future…” This is not a Dylan song, although it’s from his era.

It’s from the Steve Miller Band, called “Fly like an Eagle.” It has an eagle in it, “…flyin’ to the sea.” Now I start thinking about eagles.

(This is nothing like reporting that I saw a southern regional wood warbler unexpectedly in the north. I like spotting rare birds. But there’s more to bird watching.)

Sometimes bird watching is just that: bird watching. Staring heron-like at a heron. Getting into the Zen of it. Letting your mind wander to eagles…

Best Bald Eagle I ever saw was in Michigan, flying low over a poor man’s lake. It looked like a poster for America.

I saw another eagle over a beach in Florida once. It might’ve been flying to the sea, like the eagle in Steve Miller’s song.

I guess I’d like eagles better if they didn’t look mad. I respect the way they fly, and their strength. But they’re always scowling.

Vultures fly strong, too, yet they keep an easy-going look on their ugly faces. One of my favorite old writers, Ed Abbey, wanted to come back as one.

Maybe he did. Yeah, Abbey’s dead. Dylan’s seventy.

And I’m standing like a fool watching an old heron. Meandering in my mind about eagles in my past. Time keeps on slippin’ into the future. So do we all.

Sometimes people ask why I slog around in the wilderness. I even ask myself.

Yesterday, on my way home I drove into a forest, parked at the trailhead and walked around.

Saw Eastern Kingbirds, a Brown-headed Cowbird, Eastern Bluebirds, Tree Swallows, nothing real newsworthy.

But they are the answer: I go to the wilderness because that’s where the birds are.

This reminded me of a quote attributed to bank robber Willie Sutton. When asked by a reporter, “Why do you rob banks?” Sutton is said to have replied, “Because that’s where the money is.”

This became famous, and a standard by which we’re taught to look for the obvious. Some medical schools teach it as “Sutton’s law.”

Trouble is, he never said it.

The reporter made it up. One crook being misquoted by another crook. Yeah, a journalist who lies is a crook.

And speaking of crooks, back to the birds I saw yesterday…

One was a true crook. The Brown-headed Cowbird. Cowbirds are famous for being infamous, like Willie Sutton.

A cowbird will sneak into another bird’s unattended nest, lay an egg alongside the ones that belong. And take off.

It won’t do any hatching or feeding. It will enjoy the easy life of a crook.

The honest citizen who sits on the nest unknowingly feeds a fast-growing baby cowbird, along with the young birds that should be there.

This new cowbird muscles the others aside and steals most of the food. Sometimes it kicks the others out. They die.

The cowbird continues to grow, then starts a life elsewhere. It’ll mate, and lay an egg in the nest of another unsuspecting bird. The crooked lifestyle continues.

A reader of ours recently sent a picture she took, showing a Yellow-throated Warbler feeding its supposed baby, really a cowbird.

The “baby” is bigger than the mother. You nailed this crook, Cindy. Thanks for the picture.

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.