It’s freezing, and you’ve been buying cakes of fat.

Personally, you don’t mind the cold. Every breath is rich in oxygen. This makes you feel good. But cakes of fat? Yeah, also known as “suet.” Birds love to eat it.

You put these square cakes in little holders, and hang them outside near a window. Birds are so frozen and hungry, they leave the wild and come close.

For people, congealed fat is believed to be bad news. But for birds it’s money in the bank. So we buy cakes of it, sometimes flavored with seeds and bits of fruit.

It’s surprising how many birds this draws, and how many different kinds.

What’s also surprising is that you might not feel this is real bird watching. Definitely not “Two-Fisted.” Too easy. But at the moment, who cares?

It’s good to give the birds a hand when it’s freezing. Even if spotting birds at a feeder is kinda like shooting fish in a barrel.

Today there was a big Red-bellied Woodpecker on the other side of the glass. Lured here with fat and seeds.

Also,  American Goldfinches in sparrow-like winter plumage, Dark-eyed Juncos, Cardinals, Black-capped Chickadees, White and Red-breasted Nuthatches, Downy and Hairy Woodpeckers. A forlorn Mourning Dove.

Your yard’s become something like a zoo. (If you see a gorilla in a zoo, you don’t feel like you saw a gorilla. You feel kinda sad.)

You tell yourself that if you want to do some real bird watching, you’ll put on a coat, boots, a stupid-looking hat, and get your freezing butt into the woods.

It won’t be “too easy” to see a Red-bellied Woodpecker there. But if you do, it’ll mean something. And if you don’t, maybe that’s because the bird’s in your backyard, bopping around in front of a kitchen window.

Footnote: The above post was adapted from one that ran in 2012, so if it looks familiar, thanks for having a two-fisted memory. The original  was titled “Too Easy,” a critique about that “fish in a barrel” thing. Somehow, in this era of declining bird populations and on this day of sub-zero wind chills, we’re not as concerned about sightings being “too easy,” and we’re pleased to keep those cakes of fat in the game. 

When you see an unusual bird, that’s cool in itself. But there’s something more at play. You’re different after. You’re a person who has racked up a notable sighting. Maybe you add it to your “life list.” Maybe you don’t even keep a life list. No matter. Seeing a rare bird makes you a rare bird.

You can’t go back to being somebody who’s never seen it. Say it’s a Bald Eagle, a surprise as it soars in front of you, low and fast over a running river while you’re hanging out near the shore. For a moment you’re all eyes and that massive eagle is all you see.

The unexpected size, the surprising speed, its white head and deadly yellow beak like a spearpoint, a weapon on a weapon…and then that big bird is gone. But no. It’s never really gone.

It soars in your memory, now and whenever you want, that sighting. Sometimes when you’re down in the dumps, depressed, dejected or disappointed for earthbound reasons, you can retrieve that moment.

You can remind yourself, hey, whatever else, at least you’re someone who’s seen a Bald Eagle on the wing. You own that sighting. You own a piece of that power. You’re never the same, you’re better.

You figure you’re being a good sport. You put feeders out. Seeds, maybe suet. Sure, you get a kick out of watching. But you feel you’re doing some good, helping birds make it through the winter, nourishing them, fattening them. But wait.

There’s another pair of eyes coldly watching. And agreeing with you about the “fattening” thing. The eyes of a predator. Eyes of hunger. And they’re glaring. Just look at the photo below. Let ‘em bore into you. Get a feel for nature “red in tooth and claw” as Tennyson famously wrote.

The ironic thing is that when you, kind citizen of the natural world, go out of your way to feed the birds you may very likely be feeding the bird—singular. Take a look in the surrounding trees. Don’t be surprised if you see a lone Cooper’s Hawk blending into the foliage, its markings made for camouflage, its beak made for butchery, its eyes made for watching, waiting.

And its preferred diet: small to medium-sized birds! Mostly caught on the wing. Again, just look at those eyes in Dr. Bob’s backyard photo. They say more than words. When you set out to feed the birds, you might indirectly be feeding a lightning-fast, cannibalistic Cooper’s Hawk.

That does NOT mean we should stop feeding our neighborhood birds. It simply means that we should know the score. It’s a hungry world out there. Look in the trees above your yard and see what might be looking back at you.

Thanks to Dr. Bob, photographer extraordinaire—the guy who sent in this shot of his backyard Cooper’s Hawk. He’s also the photographer who shot and wrote about a female Cardinal here in “Guest Essays” on December 10. No telling what we’ll get next from him. His cameras are set up, and he’s a two-fisted birdwatcher.

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?

~

This post was first published twelve years ago, and it seems worth posting again. It evokes a feeling that hasn’t changed much in a world that has. Enjoy the season.

Say you spend your childhood playing in smoky industrial prairies and wetlands at Chicago’s southeastern edges. How the hell are you going to become a birder. Or—better word—a birdwatcher. (Always had trouble with that popular word, “birder,” but we cover that gripe in another post long ago and not so far away).

How is a kid going to become a birdwatcher when nature is found beneath steel mill smokestacks, a mile from a paint refinery as the crow flies…and neighbors with a municipal dump. Yeah, crows do fly there. Don’t be surprised. Here’s something you might not expect. ALL the birds are there. The whole Chicago-area aviary.

The air doesn’t smell like pristine forest. Still, birds are where you find ‘em, where they have a mind to be, even where the pollution is. Goes against expectations. But birds have little interest in what we expect. Say you’re ten years old and exploring the prairie in the smog of a summer afternoon. You and friends were looking for snakes by lifting a flat rock or chunk of garbage, and pygmy rattlers would wriggle away while you’d jump and whoop, feeling like jungle explorers.

But then you see a Purple Gallinule. Time stops. This is not a backyard bird. It’s an ad for Jurassic Park. It gets you interested in birds. For life. You investigate, learn its name, its origin, its habits. Basically you like its brash coloration and knowing you know stuff about it. You become a two-fisted birdwatcher. Starting in the rank-smelling warm winds blowing across  prairies near factories. An unexpected origin for wildlife and a wild lifelong interest.

And…what’s a childish word like “belly” doing in the business of avian taxonomy? This gripe came to mind again while sighting a “Red-Bellied Woodpecker” today. If you mention its name to anybody all they hear is, “belly.” Ornithology screwed up. Or at least English naturalist Mark Catesby did in 1729 when he saddled this bird with its misguided name. Sorry, Mark, the bird’s belly is NOT RED.

People want to say, “Hey, look at that red-headed woodpecker!” But that name’s been taken by another species, and for good reason. No, today’s visitor is stuck with “Red-bellied.” A false and phony handle for this two-fisted bird with its jackhammer beak, black-and-white ladder-back pattern, tan chest, red top and neck.

We knew a guy who drove for Chicago’s Red-Top Cab Company years ago when cabs were not “private cars.” Maybe this woodpecker should be called “red topped.” Oh well, we’re just blowing off steam on a cold morning. But, c’mon, belly?

If I told you I was one happy Belted Kingfisher this morning, would you believe me? Of course not. Maybe you’d think Belted Kingfishers can’t talk. Maybe you’d think Belted Kingfishers can’t write. Maybe you’d think you’re not sure what a Belted Kingfisher is! Some kinda bird, right? Hold on. I’m a KING of birds. The king-fisher! I talk. I squawk. I write. Go with it.

This morning I was perched on a branch overlooking a wild little lake in an old Illinois forest. The sun was shining. The water was that bitchin’ greenish-gray you gotta love. The air smelled like weeds and fish. Great smells! Wait, fish? A great smell? Yeah! Delicious wild fish… mmmm!

And I dove off my branch, fast, (blink and you’d miss that move!) into the lake with a splash. And caught a fish! This is what I do, streaking point-first (my long sharp beak, the point of my story) and zooooming into the water where I speared a silvery fish that caught my eye. Then up and out. Wings working. Taking to the air. Head back, beak open, GULP, fish down the throat. Happy!

Ah, that cold, sleek, sweet, smooth, fleshy, bony, scaly, salty, pure food, a fish! But what really made me happy is that I was watched by a human half-hidden in the trees. Some guy with a shaggy head of hair, almost as wild as my Kingfisher crest! I’m happy to be seen doing my thing, hunting and splashing and fishing, flying and gobbling, looking sleek and cool while scoped out by the human.

Meanwhile, back at the branch…I’m sittin’ in the sun. Buuuuuuuurrrrrrp! Whoa, that was fishy. But almost as good comin’ up as goin’ down. Ah, does life in the wild get any better? Hope you’re still watchin’, shaggy head.

The migration ain’t what it used to be. But then, what is?

Well, let’s try to keep this on track at least for a bit. Migration. Yeah, today on a cold November morning north of Chicago there were geese in the sky. For a moment, it all seemed to make sense.

But then the geese didn’t keep on keep’n on in their southward vee-formation. They nose-dived into a McDonalds parking lot where they seemed to prefer waddling on cold pavement, pecking at hoped-for French fries, who knows?

What we DO know, is that many migratory birds that used to define the seasons are falling down on that job. Geese and some ducks, too, now commonly stay through our modern winters. Yeah, yeah, global warming, climate change, heard it all. We’ve written about it. Right here on this site.

Speaking about that, and about how things “ain’t being what they used to be,” new writing here is also a change in the action. We haven’t put a post on this website for more than eight years. But we’re planning to stop sitting on our hands, stop doing other things, stop the freakin’ “hiatus” and get back to two-fisted birdwatching. And two-fisting writing.

This post is the first of that comeback. Glad you’re reading it!

Stay with us, and we’ll pick up where we left off. You don’t have to have been here all those years ago as a reader. Just having you here today is great! We’re pleased to meet up with you. And hope we’ll connect again soon. Watch for updates on Facebook and Instagram. Things ain’t what they used to be, and we’re trying to catch up. Meanwhile, enjoy the those geese waddling through winter in a birdland that just ain’t what it used to be.

From spring through fall, an old dead tree near a highway has many cormorants in it. It’s been their hangout for generations. People drive by and think they’re seeing crows or maybe vultures. But they’re cormorants.

On this winter day, you drive past that spot and notice the tree’s no longer there. When things warm up and cormorants return, they’re going to look for it.

You continue down the road, away from the blank space where the cormorants’ tree used to be. The gap back there reminds you of a missing tooth.

When the cormorants come they’ll hover over it in confusion for a while. You feel a kind of philosophical shoulder-shrug sorrow for this inevitable truth.

Their world is going to be shaken. They’ll manage, of course. But the fact that such things happen to birds and man is disconcerting, like the ominous appearance of a cormorant itself.

If you’re around next spring, and if you drive past the tree that’s not there and you see that there are no cormorants, you’ll know that your life has been changed a little.

Yeah, your life. Sure, it’s the cormorants that have been affected. But they were your cormorants. And that old dead tree was your old dead tree. A part of your world that got a tooth knocked out.

 It’s raining like crazy over a woodland lake the way it does sometimes on an August day that starts sunny.

The sky darkens. Low clouds roll over and unload. The lake’s surface makes you think of machine-gun fire.

Thunderclaps encourage that idea, and lightning. Wind shakes trees. Leaves and branches fly off and spin around.

Somebody’s lawn chair blows into the lake.

Water comes down with sound and fury as Shakespeare said somewhere.

But unlike his sound and fury, this isn’t a tale told by an idiot signifying nothing.

It’s a tale told by a warm front in disagreement with a cold front signifying nothing. Except the uncertainty of August sunshine.

Now a bird flies across the lake through the rain. It’s an American Robin but this bird’s name is not important.

What’s important is its improbable, implacable route. Flying straight through all that wind and rain, in spite of it all.

You wonder: where’s it going? What’s so important there? How can it maintain altitude when the weight of so much water is pushing down on its back? What’s it thinking?

You’ll never know. And it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that you feel an unexpected moment of admiration for a bird flying unfazed through a storm. This makes your day.

On May 26, 2012, we published a post titled “Unseen.” It said Northern Flickers hadn’t been noticed much around here recently.

Separately, people who saw a Flicker and weren’t sure what kind of bird it was, went online to search for a picture that could help them identify it. They found our post with its photo, and the bird’s name.

Many sent us a comment to let us know. Seems Flickers weren’t “unseen” everywhere.

It’s normal for a post to get a few comments, but “Unseen” generated an uncanny number. Close to a hundred at last count.

And they still come in. Some in response to that 2012 post, and some to the one you’re reading now.

Flickers are out there, even though experts have reported they’re declining.

Well, they’re not declining on this site. Here’s another picture.

Ray and Barbara from North Adams, Massachusetts were nice enough to send it.

Flickers may be scarce in our neck of the woods, but they’re still spotted.

Years ago, you’re in an office on the 26^th floor of a Chicago skyscraper, doing work profoundly unrelated to nature.

You have the feeling of being watched.

You look over your shoulder.

On the other side of your window there’s a Yellow-bellied Sapsucker, clinging to the building, meeting your gaze.

The bird had picked your window. Not the window of some guy who wouldn’t know a sapsucker from his elbow.

You grab a cheap throw-away camera and get a picture.

The shot is poor. Dark and fuzzy. You find it recently, while cleaning out a desk.

Back when you saw the sapsucker, you had the momentary feeling that it sought you out, personally.

Looking at the old picture, you still wonder about that.

But you shake off the thought.

You just chalk it up to the simple truth that sometimes you watch the birds, and sometimes they watch you.