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 familiar question on a familiar 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 focus the binoculars on it anyway. And, hey, there’s some unexpected white and yellow. It’s a White-throated Sparrow.

Nothing rare, but not an everyday bird. Kinda cool.

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

Scat’s an academic 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. The trail is familiar. The air’s bracing. The exercise is working out the kinks. The woods are sort of the same, and sort of different. As always.

~        ~         ~

If the above rings familiar, well what a memory you have. A similar report appeared here more than 14 years ago. After all that time, we’re still hitting the same woods twice, so it seems worth sharing with you twice.

You can be a mountain-climbing, forest-hiking, campfire building, tough nut who knows the hell out of birds and their habits and field markings and all that. But you still might know a little about subjects that break this stereotypical mold.

Like maybe you know a song or two from classical music or even Broadway. And you happen to remember the haunting “Music of the Night” from “The Phantom of the Opera.”

What does this have to do with the rugged sport of two-fisted birdwatching? Last night, while taking the pooch for a midnight bathroom hike in the snowy nighttime woods, you hear…the music of the night.

You know a fierce and fearsome Great Horned Owl is offstage in the dark. And he’s performing a great horned aria.

Bird related experiences are the meat and potatoes of these reports. Usually not about music, although not long ago we wrote about Melanie and her “new pair of roller skates.” And we once wrote about the late Dave Brubeck and “took five.”

Mostly we cover two-fisted birdwatching. Not music. But that “phantom” won’t shut up. The owl hidden in the treetops is hot to repeat that haunting solo in the dark. Hoo-hoo…hoohoo-hoo. Then again. The music of the night from the phantom of the forest.

The owl might’ve been excited because the pooch is a tempting midnight snack. But the pooch was going home in one piece. Yet, the lonesome music of the night continues in the woods. Wild.

The nice thing about winter birding is you can see through the forest. No leaves. Mostly branches, limbs, twigs and trunks. With space between to spot birds.

You don’t mind being cold, and don’t mind snow and ice underfoot. Because a cool sighting could be waiting around the next curve in the trail. It could be real, or maybe something else.

Today you come upon a giant old tree, long dead but standing strong, tall and timeless. Sure enough, on one of its branches, there’s “the story bird.” It flutters, it chatters. A Tailorbird.   

Specifically, a “Common Tailorbird,” resident of South Asian jungles and suburban Mumbai backyards. But here it is. The most interesting sighting in today’s empty woods.

Its name: “Darzee,” remembered as the heroic busybody in Rudyard Kipling’s tale about a kickass mongoose and deadly cobras. On this cold day Darzee is not in hot India. He’s in your American freezing forest.

What tropical bird could be so far from home? A crazy one? Hey—Darzee may be flighty but he’s not crazy. Just imaginary. You nod to him. No need for binocs. You see him fine, this unforgettable bird from Kipling’s unforgettable tale.

Few other birds can be seen in these empty winter woods today. But you’ve got Darzee. You’re not complaining. This bird helped a fierce mongoose save a family from killer cobras. Well, let Kipling handle those details. And maybe share them with a kid. For now, you’re just glad to remember an old story and glad to spot an invisible bird, a story bird.

But then, there’s always something worth finding in the woods, whatever the season, whatever the weather. Something to take your mind off all that’s going on outside the woods.

After a long winter’s hike, you’re nursing a beer in your favorite restaurant bar. You’d been out all morning looking for a Snowy Owl, but didn’t see one.

You’re no stranger to this bar, or this beer. Both are old friends. But there’s something different today. The place feels nicer. Why is that?

You gotta think about it. But first, you gotta hit the men’s room.

There’s a big guy in there who got stuck watching his kid while his wife shops in the neighborhood. He’s changing the kid’s diaper on the sink.

The atmosphere’s worse than usual in the men’s room. Plus, you can’t get at the sink.

It’s a deciding moment.

You’re pissed off because you didn’t see the Snowy Owl that many people have been talking about on the internet. Now this.

You want to give the guy a dirty look in the mirror, and say something like “cheeez!” Then leave, and slam the door.

Something stops you. Instead, you say, “Ah, the joys of fatherhood.”

You smile at the guy as he struggles. He looks up and says, “Tell me about it.” And smiles back. Now you both feel good instead of bad.

Back at the bar, it hits you. Why the place feels nicer.

It’s the lights. This restaurant bar is lit up with little holiday lights. They’re strung across the ceiling, over the bottles, around doorways.

You hate to say it—it’s not a two-fisted comment—but they’re kind of pretty. They give the place a…glow

Normally, you don’t care about things in a bar being pretty. Except for tall, blond Donna who sometimes sits with you.

No, you don’t care that they’re pretty. But you gotta wonder, why don’t they have these little lights all year ‘round?

~

The above was first published here in 2011. The sentiment hasn’t changed. Even though we still haven’t seen a Snowy Owl!

Can you call a solstice “nature?” Everything’s nature, but especially the environmental stuff, the outdoors, and this morning during a dogwalk at the usual time, the usual morning light just wasn’t there. Nature. Non-negotiable.

Today was and is December 21, winter solstice. It’s always a little unclear if the night before or after this day is the longest one of the year, but what’s not unclear is that it’s pretty dark at dawn.

Instead of this darkness being challenging, it’s encouraging. It underscores the implacable nature of things in the natural world. During the winter solstice, you’re not going to wake up to morning light streaming into the room. Non negotiable.

And on your walk you might see a coyote with steaming breath staring hungrily at your pooch, and you might see a few freezing squirrels who were smart enough to take care of their nuts, and you might see a cardinal, some nuthatches and sparrows. Hardy winter birds you expect—expectations met.

But you won’t see a Ruby-throated Hummingbird, or any hummingbird. You won’t see a Veery or a Vireo. No cuckoos either, Yellow-billed or Black-billed; they’re not cuckoo enough to stay so they migrate. Non-negotiable.

How does the dimly lit morning of the winter solstice connect to thoughts of birds who migrate and those who don’t? Easily. Comfortably. They both calmly illustrate that this is the way the world works, with or without our involvement or understanding.

It’s not the world of human stuff, but the real world of planetary rotation, of bird migration, the non-negotiable indifferent nature of nature. Oddly, this is comforting as hell, although as you crunch through the coating of solstice snow, you’re cold as hell. Still you’re loving it all.

It’s dark around here at 6AM. Starting to lighten by 6:30, dog-walk time. Today was single-digit cold. Like “one.” The ultimate single digit. Leafless trees stood jagged against a silver-gray dawn. Their silhouettes looked strong.

Back home, we loaded the backyard feeder with seeds. Hands freezing. Quickly, cold birds came. We watched from the kitchen window. We don’t kid ourselves: this is not “birdwatching.” Just feeder watching.

The birds are cold. Puffed up. The parka worn during our dog-walk comes to mind. Puffed up. Feathers in there somewhere.

Birds crowd around out there. Word spreads. They are quick and busy. They have natural parkas. And our seeds. December is always cold here. No problem.

There are sparrows and juncos. Chickadees and nuthatches. A couple of woodpeckers. A blue jay. A shock-red cardinal.

They’re scarfing free seeds on a new day in another season. They do this every year. A one-degree morning is just another day on the job. They’d make it through the winter even without our seeds.

They’re Chicagoans. Tough guys.

After a lazy few weeks of falling down on the job by not going into the wild for exploration, solitude and the spotting of cool birds and animals, there’s guilt at play.

Come on, if you’re a two-fisted birdwatcher, get off your butt. Hit the trail.

Pull on your beat-up boots, get binocs in your fists and lose yourself in the wild for a while. So yeah, you go. But then—whoa: the day you pick to break that run of slothfulness is wildly cold.

The wind chill factor (a dubious indicator popular with weather reporters) is flat-out vicious. Way below freezing. Even below zero! We’re talking “bitter cold,” another one of those everyday phrases surprisingly coined by Shakespeare, and he nailed it.

But you’re not in the woods to think about English Lit—you’re here to think about a jackpot sighting that would defeat discomfort from this deep freeze in deep woods. That probably won’t happen.

Still…considering the time, place and isolation—the goal bird on this hike is a Pileated Woodpecker.

You look. You listen for jackhammer blows against frozen wood. You march on. But the most interesting thing in the woods is only your breath which comes out like smoke.

No Pileated Woodpecker to welcome you back to this favorite old wilderness.. The only Pileateds on your hike are the ones that never fly out of your memory. Fun to revisit those reliable, unforgettable sightings in the mental scrapbook.

Enough for now. You leave the frozen forest to its lifeless, silent self, yet you feel vindicated. You’ve broken the ice. Literally. You’ve hit the trail, an overdue greeting to wild winter which, against common assumptions, is a fine time for birdwatching. (More about that in a future post.)

You’ll be back soon—wind chills notwithstanding. And if something good gets spotted you’ll report it. Right here.

After all the usual things to be thankful for, a two-fisted birdwatcher on this cold gray Midwest morning is thankful for a seed feeder dangling outside the kitchen window. And the crazy action it stirred up.

It’s given food for thought…as well as food for the birds of Thanksgiving. Which are…bear with us on this—common House Sparrows.

Nothing special to look at. Drab, brownish gray, few interesting splotches of pattern… small… and, for sure “common.” In fact, they’re the most common birds in the world!

They originated somewhere in Eurasia. Got “introduced” to New York in the 1850s, then, bam, within a blink they’re found from Canada to Panama and everywhere in between. Especially outside the kitchen window scarfing down seeds and making woodpeckers and jays wait for a turn.

Today, within hours, a ravening flock of common House Sparrows emptied a full feeder. This is a clue to their rapid success in America and everyplace else where these born opportunists have spread, or been introduced, including New Zealand!

House Sparrows—by whatever quirk of fate—are super adapted to living side-by-side with humans. They love our food scraps and our buildings where they find nesting places that other birds would disdain. They go where we go, live where we live, and like it.

Maybe that’s why we should be thankful. But wait. Thankful for a drab and common little bird? Not a flashy raptor, colorful jay, exotic tanager or a once-in-a lifetime “accidental” blown around the world for life-listers and life-lusters to drool over?

No, nothing like that. Maybe we should be thankful that at least one species of bird actually likes us. Better yet, maybe the subject of our thankfulness isn’t something to dwell upon. Instead, let’s turn the focus onto the common House Sparrow (for a change) and think about what IT’S thankful for.

The answer is kind of flattering. Us.

I could give you the hawk’s name, but names change. This one’s gonna change. You could look it up. Or see the footnote below. For now, let’s go with “Wingman.”

It fits for a big—and I mean big—rusty-brown hawk that flew alongside my car yesterday. Just him and me. Wingtips inches from my window as we sped side-by-side.

I’ve seen eagles—Bald and Golden—and Ospreys. I’m no newcomer to raptor heavyweights. But this close-up partnership was a new trip. We were on a quiet street, no sidewalks, lotsa wildlife. Squirrels, rabbits, and when you walk the dog at night you watch for skunks.

What happened yesterday afternoon is that this big hawk must have just found fresh roadkill or maybe he caught a bird. We’ve had flocks of fall robins and Cedar Waxwings. Lots of opportunity here for a suburban hunter.

He was on the street as I drove up behind him, interrupting lunch. He said “shit,” and took to the air with an angry flap of wide wings, then leveled off outside of my driver’s side window as I drove, near enough to touch.

We flew that way for a block. When we reached the T-bone intersection, he climbed quickly and grabbed the lowest branch of an old tree there. He glowered back at me. I said, I can relate, man. When I’m eating I also don’t like to be hassled.

But I was happy to have had that wild warplane of a bird just outside my window. Whatever the name of this guy is or will be—he’s “Wingman” around here.

* The American Ornithological Society announced that it will rename 70–80 bird species, including the Cooper’s hawk, starting in 2024. The Cooper’s hawk was named after William Cooper, a 19th-century naturalist. Its scientific name, Accipiter cooperii, also honors Cooper. We’re waiting to see what the new name will be. For today, it’s “Wingman.”

(A bit of time travel)

Today’s post is mainly one line. A simple link to some thoughts and also comments that appeared here twelve years ago. This gives the story a kind of rebirth. Out of the fog. Of time.

https://twofistedbirdwatcher.com/out-of-the-fog/

It’s a Peregrine Falcon. An odd word, peregrine. But bird names are gonna be what they’re gonna be. Peregrine means “wanderer” and that’s okay. Although you could apply it to most birds, creatures with wings and whims.

So where does “magic” come in?  There’s a novel—written by one of our own, the author of much of our two-fisted birdwatcher stuff—and we’ve mentioned it on the site, most recently in “Two-Fisted Library.” (It’s called “The Idea People,” and Amazon gives a rundown about the details.)

We’re not normally into recommending books, especially those from our own keyboards. But this one has a ton of two-fisted fun. And birds make some pretty interesting appearances, so it would be weirdly wrong to not turn you on to it.

One bird in a key (and possibly criminal?) role is a Peregrine Falcon. Is it magic? Not in the book—but on a hill outside of New York there was a kind of magic moment involving a non-fictional Peregrine, the book, and a friend of ours.

True story: we gave “The Idea People” to this friend, a guy who rarely reads novels. But he politely accepted it. As these things happen, the book sat unlooked-at for months. Then one day not long ago he wanted to get away from the city. He went for a hike in mountains a few hours out of New York. He took the book. Maybe he’d find a peaceful spot to sit and read a bit.

That’s what he did, and soon got into the story. He was at the part where a Peregrine Falcon drops out of the sky near a woman who had recently become lost in the wilds of the Colorado Rockies.

Then this happened:

A real-life Peregrine Falcon descended out of nowhere and perched on a rock near him. Magically, this coincided with the bird in the book showing up, too. The guy stopped reading. This was unreal.

Like most New Yorkers he could recognize a Peregrine because they make news there, hanging around tall buildings. Dark cheeks, sleek falcon form, brutal beak, spunky attitude, all that. The bird settled nearby and stared at him. Uncommon behavior for any bird, but especially a wild predator who likes to avoid humans.

And this happened while the guy was holding a book about a wild Peregrine who interacts in a surprising way with human characters in the mystery. The guy was amazed at this coincidence. He grabbed a photo of the bird with his phone.

The fact that this really happened is confounding, crazy, seemingly magical. At least that’s what the guy thought when he told us about it and sent his photo. He eventually finished the novel with new interest. Did he like it? He added a review on Amazon, but that’s his business.

We’re still marveling over his sighting that day in high country not far from New York City—and even though his photo is not pro-quality, it’s got a cool story to go with it. Man, what are the odds!

Saw a Mourning Dove this morning. Was it mourning anything? Probably the end of warm weather around here. It was on the ground, pecking at litter under a seed feeder. It stood alone and apart from a ragtag bunch of juncos, chickadees, nuthatches and sparrows.     

The sight of this solitary bird brings to mind a favorite old novel. “Lonesome Dove,” by Larry McMurtry. It’s worth knowing about whether you’re into books or not. Friends have said, “What did you do to me, recommending that story? I can’t stop reading it!”

But back to this morning’s Mourning Dove. Aren’t doves said to be social? Lovey-dovey and all that? So the sight of this lonesome dove does two things. It catches your daily bird-watching interest and also reminds you of that novel you read. And then re-read a few years later for the fun of it.

Sure. Some things are worth doing more than once. Like reading the Pulitzer-winning, two-fisted “Lonesome Dove.” And maybe even telling you about it more than once, too.

Long-time readers of our stuff might remember that we mentioned this years ago. We got a slew of comments from those who agreed.  Just because you’ve read that big, rawboned, wild-west, rough & ready literary classic before, doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it again.

Thinking this, you nod at an actual lonesome dove on this cold morning. And you think, hey, thanks guy, for the reminder. Maybe gonna re-read that big book another time someday. But for now, just gonna write about it.

The fall migration is in full swing and whether or not you walk in the wild, you can’t help but notice. It’s in your backyard. It’s in your front yard. And up and down the street. You notice this because you’re a two-fisted birdwatcher.

And you notice it not because you have binoculars in your two fists. No, you’re “naked birding” which might sound sexy, but simply means you’re without binoculars. It’s a great kind of birdwatching— spontaneous, incidental, unavoidable.

You’re walking the neighborhood, say in the morning with your dog. And you can’t help noticing the active trees. They’re full of animation. Not the quaking of colorful fall leaves in breezes—that’s to be expected—no, the leaves are alive, but they’re not leaves, they’re birds. Many kinds.

This is not about spotting species—although that can’t be helped when naked birding. Yeah, there’s the usual crew of fall warblers—Black & whites, Blackburnian, Yellowthroats, Chestnut-sided, others too. Even some jumpy Robins who won’t stay, along with the calmer ones who will. And Veeries—prone to crash into windows for inexplicable reasons. And various thrushes.

But skip specifics for now—this moment is about motion, liveliness in the trees, the fuss within and behind the leaves. You see it and think, okay, it’s fall migration again. All, or at least something, must be right with the world.

And then you see a fairly large bush that bears some kind of red berries—you never knew their names or cared much, and in this bush there are Cedar Waxwings. Not a few, but a flock.

And individuals can be made out without binocs—you see the yellow tail tips, the crest, the smooth beige body that looks more like something made of glass rather than feathers, the spunky movement and impatience, individually and as a flock—a flock with its own nervous system.

And you know tomorrow this bush will be empty of waxwings, and most of its berries. The action will have moved south and you smile, knowing this, without needing binoculars in your two fists, feeling again that at least something’s going according to plan, and this is worth a lot, this knowledge.

It was really quiet as we took our early morning walk. Me, thinking, Thoreau said an early morning walk is “a blessing for the whole day.” I’ve thought that before and mentioned it in one of these posts before, sorry. But it’s unavoidable. To be out at dawn—and dawn’s pretty dark this time of year, is just a cool thing. Cool in both meanings.

It’s to be appreciated. As is Thoreau and some things he’s said. But it’s so still on this dark dawn. No wildlife. Just a lot of plant life. Trees, bushes, aggressive in our woodsy area. Now a little more light is coming over the trees. The dog and I know this scene, this routine, this moment, and we appreciate it. But a bird or two would make a nice note.

Sometimes we see a coyote stopped in the distance staring at the dog. Pointy snout, beady eyes, sexy wildness in a somewhat tame setting where suburbia touches woodlands. But this morning nothing moves.

Birdwatching is a priority. They said in the beginning—go early, kid, that’s when you’ll see birds. I have found that to be BS. Birds, like people, are scarce at dawn. I’ve seen many birds over a long time at it, mostly when the sun’s up. The life list is good now and it’s hard to find something new. These days it’s just a blessing to find a repeat. Hell, I’ve seen Pileated Woodpeckers, Summer Tanagers and Bald Eagles walking distance from home.

The dog doesn’t care. His focus is on whatever smells so interesting on the ground. But he did look up at the distant coyote that time, and their eyes met. My intuition is that he felt no fear, that he wanted to either greet the coyote or something ancient in his own genes said he wanted to eat the coyote. Dog DNA, you gotta marvel.

It’s getting lighter now and the sides of the treetops that still hold some colorful leaves are getting lit on one side by yellow light, cool. Gotta think of Thoreau’s quote again, although we don’t want to get sappy about it. Time to go home and start the day. Or restart the day. The start’s already happened, and it was out here in this dawn, with trees and quiet and a lightening sky.

Then, wait, a hoarse call, a kind of screech but not unmusical, a loud single-note blast of sound cuts the quiet moment in half. I thought: what could that be? Only candidate that made sense: a Jay. I had no hope of actually spotting it. The sound came from overhead somewhere but it’s unclear where. Lot of clutter in the shadowy treetops. Hope the sound comes again. It doesn’t.

But wait, incredibly, there’s a bird there momentarily revealed through branches and dying leaves right overhead. I get a good look for half a second. A bit more sun is out now, and a ray hits this bird. A jay. In a ray. A Blue Jay of course. I’ve seen most of the Jays. Even a plain “Jay” with no modifier in Europe years ago. Two kinds of Scrub Jays in the American South. A Steller’s Jay out West. But the clear favorite for reasons of design and personality is the Blue Jay, a resident around here and a buddy who’s been fun to see since I was a kid.

And on this quiet morning just as we were about to call it a day, this Jay said hey. A greeting that we both know wasn’t entirely by accident, or at least that’s the way we’re calling it.

I’m hoping to find a Ruddy Duck today. Haven’t seen one for years. Ducks don’t exactly float my boat when it comes to two-fisted birdwatching. But this particular one is always worth a look.

The Ruddy Duck is not the reason that as a city kid I got interested in birds. The first Cardinal was. Spotted in a black & white street scene, standing out like a cherry on a sundae, something that grabs a kid’s attention.

But the Ruddy Duck, while not the reason I got into birdwatching, still confirms that this is a cool pursuit. Surprising, challenging, even philosophical. See, the Ruddy duck, like that Cardinal, surprises with inexplicable color.

“Ruddy” means “reddish,” right?  But although it might be reddish, there’s an un-named color thing going on that makes you want to spot it.

A bright blue bill.

No idea why. The great duck designer in the sky simply painted this bird’s bill…BLUE. Out-of-left-field blue. A bit of avian mischief. (Like that crazy plume on a Gambel’s Quail. What’s that about!)

And this makes the somewhat tame activity of waterbird watching a little more interesting. How’s it “philosophical?” We understand natural selection, survival-based coloration, all that, but why a blue bill? You have to wonder: the essence of philosophy.

Whatever. It’s just another kick in the tricky sport of two-fisted bird watching. First time around, you want to spot this bird and add its stupid name to your life list. Next time, like today, you just hope to see the Ruddy Duck again, and get a look at that crazy bill.

We’re in Southeastern Florida. It’s not a vacation. C’mon, the season’s late summer. In other words, hot, humid, really hot, and likely to have a hurricane. But this isn’t about weather. Our visit is a family gathering. But this isn’t about that either. This is—what would you expect, considering where you’re reading this—about a bird.

A Southeastern bird. A bird of the semi-tropics we call Florida, and the flat-out tropics we call anyplace near there where a bird can fly. And we see a bird. Okay, for the moment, all else is out the window, off the table, no longer worth wasting words over. What we want to focus on is this bird seen in hot humid Florida.

But before we get to the I.D. here’s a fun fact: the bird is not on the wing, not in a tree, not in water, not in a palmetto or shrub, not on the ground, no, the bird is joining us for breakfast. It is in a restaurant. An indoor restaurant. Sitting on a chair at a nearby table.

Folks are having breakfast. (Eggs make an ironic appearance, but they’re ignored by this bird). The thing you’d probably want to know, considering you’re someone who reads this bird stuff, is: what kind of Southeastern bird was it?

Maybe you’re hoping it was a Painted Bunting. The jackpot of Southeastern bird sightings, but you think: get real. That wildly colored bird is only going to be spotted in the wild. So what was it?

Could it be a Hudsonian Godwit? They do show up along the Atlantic coast during fall migration. But not the case. We just like saying that name. Hudsonian Godwit. (And it is actually on our life list).

Hudsonian Godwit. Not.

Could it be Miami’s own national bird, the state bird of Florida…the Mockingbird? Sitting in a restaurant mocking us. But no.

How about an American Coot. Well, the restaurant did have some coots, but of the human variety. Yeah, and it wasn’t a gull, Or a Booby—Blue-footed or any other kind, even though South Beach is near.

It wasn’t a Merlin, a Pied-billed Grebe or Peewee. Not a Boat-tailed Grackle, Scrub Jay, swallow or oriole, nor any one of the myriad warblers that flock up our field guides and life lists. No. So what was this interesting restaurant-going wild Southeastern bird?

Answer. Common house sparrow. The kind we see up north, and everywhere else. Year ‘round. A bird that is nothing to write home about. One of the most common birds in America, and probably the whole world. That little brown and gray house sparrow. So what’s the big deal?

It was sitting on a chair.

In a restaurant.

And it was a bird.