Meaning this: On a mid-winter day you take your binoculars and head into the wilds where your gut tells you it’s going to be pretty dead as far as finding birds. Still, there could be something. That’s the fun of it, the “could be.”
Could be you’ll spot a Snowy Owl. But in your experience that’s always been the “somewhere else bird.” And it seems to know that.
Maybe you’ll see a Pileated Woodpecker, rare but not impossible. Could be you’ll almost step on a pheasant being pinned by a Red-tailed Hawk and they’ll both flap away in a rush, the pheasant dripping blood, the hawk glaring at you with pissed off eyes. (This once happened!).
Could be you’ll see a White winged Crossbill, something rarer than a junco or nuthatch. Your mind wanders as the trail wanders. Your memory is full of birds well remembered. You might not have birds in the present, but you’ve got them in the past.
“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” Yeah, Faulkner said it. Now you’re saying it. And you’re remembering good times in the living past…
Spotting what you thought was a Scarlet Tanager in these woods, then discovering it was an even rarer Summer Tanager. You’ve got that in the past and can visit it on this barren day.
You’ve got the memory of two breeds of Cuckoos seen here. You’ve got Indigo Buntings iridescent in last summer’s sun, and a comical Woodcock waddling off. There was a Yellow-breasted Chat, too. The list goes on.
Even if you haunt this old trail on a bleak and birdless day, you’ve got the past. It doesn’t disappoint. Hell, it’s not even past.
