He told me to stand very still and wait for a flash of movement in the tree, then focus on a reference point — say, a gnarled branch — and lift the binoculars to my face.
“Don’t squint,” he said. “Keep both eyes open. Go against your instincts.”
He was a Wisconsin guy, raised in the woods and at ease with wild creatures. I’d grown up in Philadelphia — surrounded by concrete and small, sad lawns — and was new to dating in hiking boots. I brought the binoculars to my eyes. As he had promised, the world exploded with color.
