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.

The woodlands are snowed in, so I’m snowed out.

But no. I give it a try. Hiking in the wild is like a drug. You can’t go cold turkey.

Speaking of cold turkeys, they’d make a nice sighting. I saw some in a field. But that wasn’t today. Today, I’m the only turkey around.

It’s quiet. Too white in the sunshine, not good for the eyes. All this sameness, the stillness, and your mind starts to wander.

Your feet can’t wander. You can hardly move on the buried trail. But the mind moves fine.

It takes me back to another snowfield where the white and quiet were similar. But the air was thinner.

I was on a mountain in Colorado. I’d seen Black-billed Magpies there. Mountain Bluebirds, Pine Grosbeaks, a distant Golden Eagle, Gray Jays. Not much else.

Snap back to the present: there’s some modest activity here. Cardinals, Dark-eyed Juncos, a distant flock of what might be Cedar Waxwings.

And I’m surprised to see pale Robins toughing out the winter. Maybe they took global warming to heart, and didn’t migrate. Maybe they’re from farther north.

I take a breather. And think about the mountain.

When I was in that other snowfield, up there, I almost saw a mountain lion. Lions are a goal. I’m always looking when I’m on their turf.

I have a friend who saw a mountain lion on a golf course in Tucson. Sorry, that doesn’t count. A lion shouldn’t be on a golf course.

When I was on the mountain, there were fresh prints. The lion was probably watching me from cover.

Back to the Chicago burbs. Our forests are deep, and you could be anywhere, even the wild west. No lions, but coyote tracks are common.

Robert Frost wrote: “Whose woods these are I think I know.” I’m not a guy who quotes poets. But I know whose woods these are.

Back on the mountain, after not seeing a lion: I saw a bighorn ram. A lion would have been better. Still, the ram’s no slouch.

I had my old camera. My photos are nothing much, but they show that I was there.

I wrote my name in the snow to show that I was there, too. But that’s another story. And it’s long gone.

Speaking of being long gone, it’s time to get out of the woods. This wandering of mind and body in wilderness and time was nice. My only drug.

But back to reality.

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.