Killdeer, Charadrius vociferus
Morning, pal. Chilly night, hope you fared OK. That fat old yellow sun ought to crest the ridge any minute. Or maybe not, given these rain clouds. I’m shooting to be an hour, two tops. Cool with you? My intention is to take it slow, avoid creating a ruckus. That said, I’m absolutely cranked on black coffee, like cranked cranked, a full French press plus a commuter mug in my jacket pocket. I’ll try not to be the most annoying guy you’ve ever met, but no promises.
Great blue heron, Ardea herodias
Don’t fly, don’t fly, don’t fly, don’t fly. Yes, that’s right, focus on the fishing, nothing to see here. I’m a nobody, a zero. I’ll simply tiptoe past and be on my way. You have more-important stuff to do than—no!
Canada goose, Branta canadensis
Want to hear something ridiculous, by which I mean stupid, by which I mean sad? You were once a cherished icon of the wilderness, but now, because you frequent our soccer fields and public parks, we call you a pest. Rather than apologize on behalf of my species, I’m going to pretend you’re the last goose on earth, the rarest of the rare. Actually, let’s pretend I’m dying, a terminal case, a pile of dust this time tomorrow.
Spotted sandpiper, Actitis macularius
The coffee has worked its dark magic, and suddenly I need to go. Bad. Weird that you can defecate directly into the creek, no harm, no foul, whereas I have to hold it until I get home. Does this mean your waste is clean and mine is dirty? Yours is part of the holy whole and mine is toxic grossness? I’m not arguing I should be able to drop trou and go in the creek. I’m just confused. We’re both animals.
Wilson’s snipe, Gallinago delicata
“Henlike dainty.” That’s the gist of your Latin name. I wonder: What’s your real name, the one your friends and family use? And what’s your secret name, the one only your diary knows? Do you dream? Do you laugh and cry? Do you have fears, passions, fantasies? I wonder: What’s your idea of a perfect morning, your version of bird-watching?
Mountain bluebird, Sialia currucoides
You surely haven’t heard the news about the planet on fire, the rising tide of suffering, the anger and guns and noise and wealthy jerks rocketing to outer space, et cetera. Instead of doomscrolling on a smartphone, you eat and sleep and nest. Instead of tripping out on the future, you fly into the moment. I don’t mean to project, but even if you’re not an avian Zen master—which I doubt—I dig your style.
White-faced ibis, Plegadis chihi
Six of you? Whether you’re the same six as last spring or different, I’m certain you’ll soon be soaring north for the summer. Travel safe. Visit again whenever you please. The door to this valley is always open.
Northern harrier, Circus hudsonius
It’s common for bird-watchers to pay big money for high-quality binoculars and spotting scopes, and the photographers with eight-foot zoom lenses are certifiably nuts. Despite our reputation as a bunch of jackasses, we humans crave your beauty and strength and mystery. We want to share space, feel connected. My Nikons are cheap because I’m cheap. Don’t be insulted. If they broke, I’d come out anyway and listen for the sound of air racing across your wings.
Warbling vireo, Vireo gilvus
Funny: I spend as much time with my nose in the field guide as I do squinting through the binoculars. I’m helpless. The nerdy learning is too great. I bet you didn’t know you weigh twelve grams, or that you have pale lores and a weak eyebrow, or that your call is a harsh nasal meezh.
?????
For Chrissake quit hiding in the brush, you drab little bastard, and show me your upper-tail coverts already so I can hurry home to the bathroom!
Mallard, Anas platyrhynchos
I understand you’re a duck, not a swan, and I also understand that quoting the Sufi mystic Rumi is criminally cheesy. Guilty as charged. I have very few poems memorized, and with the drizzle starting up, this one seems fitting: Rain fell on one man, he ran into his house. But the swan spread its wings and said, “Pour more on me of that power I was fashioned from.” Indeed, I am a man. To my credit, though, this is a brisk yet dignified walk.
Mourning dove, Zenaida macroura
You can’t hear these words, and I suspect you wouldn’t comprehend them even if I were to speak aloud—though perhaps the music of my voice would convey my excitement and gratitude? Probably not. Probably I’m caffeine-babbling in my own private echo chamber, like so many other mornings out here. Aristotle described Homo sapiens as the “rational animal,” but that translation is iffy. Some scholars opt for the “animal with speech.” It’s what we do. We talk to the world. We blather our love nonstop.
Song sparrow, Melospiza melodia
It’s encouraging to see that the sharp steel of a barbed wire fence can be a perch from which to sing. Keep singing. Take care. And hey, look, that fat old yellow sun is burning through the clouds. Wassup, my dude? How’s it hanging? How’d you fare the chilly night?
