The Chronicles

Found, at last

2006-04-06T11:36:00.000-05:00

Over a month ago, I lost my binoculars. I had left them in my backpack, I was sure. I scoured my room, but a dorm room offers few hiding places. After I had emptied my three drawers and poured my closet out onto my dorm-room floor, I turned to the rest of campus. I sent out emails and visited the lost and found nearly every time I passed it.

I prefer birding alone, when I have the privacy to stroke flowers and meet birds in solitude. Not having the leisure to stop by the pond for a few minutes before or after classes was the worst part of losing my binoculars. For group birding, Fjord generously shared his own or found another pair from his floor.

The binoculars were my parents, so I knew I had to purchase new ones, but I waited. Surely those optics wanted to see warblers nearly as much as I did.

The kids in Bible club have been rowdy of late. Hoping to buy their attention with a quiet-seat award, I opened a box of ribbons and feathers and various items reserved for presentations. Maybe I could find a suitable prize in there. I didn’t, but I did find a pair of missing binoculars.

Springtime birds, here I come!

Unplanned birding

2006-03-12T20:58:00.000-06:00

When I heard that we’d be going camping in Oklahoma during my first weekend of spring break, I didn’t think much of it. As we neared the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge, however, and my little brothers strained in their seats to see the buffalo and longhorns, I was glad I had accepted Fjord’s offer to lend me his pair of binoculars.

The campout was a youth retreat (“youth” meaning anyone from the ages of 14 to 30), with plenty of other families thrown in, so birding opportunities were limited. We did have some free time, though, and I used mine to wander through the marshy brush and look for birds. Among the abundant titmice and chickadees and phoebes and Canada Geese, I found four life birds.

While we were setting up camp, I saw the familiar flight of a woodpecker. I didn’t have binoculars handy, so I crept as quietly as I could. The bird had the patterns of a Downy Woodpecker, but it just looked different. I remembered what Bolt had said about the obvious differences between a Downy and a Hairy, and I guessed Hairy, verifying it later when Mr. Holzapful gave me a bird checklist for the area.

The next day we had a break in the schedule to do our individual quiet times. As I was searching for a secluded spot, I caught sight of bright red. Another woodpecker. This one was very clean, it’s colors – red, black, white, black – all unmixed. A Red-headed Woodpecker.

On Sunday morning, we had nothing scheduled until 8, so I spent an hour birding. I climbed through branches and thorns chasing after birds for a while, but with no luck. The many ducks on the water were nothing but dark blurs. As for the land birds, I saw plenty of chickadees and titmice, but nothing I was unfamiliar with.

I was beginning to lose hope when I saw a shore bird standing in the nearby shallow water. I noticed long yellow legs, a gray, speckled back, and a light breast and belly. Soon, it gave a funny call and flew away, revealing a white tail. I grabbed my Sibley. Only two birds looked like the one I had seen: Greater Yellowlegs and Lesser Yellowlegs. The checklist provided little help, telling me only that both of the birds were “occasional” for spring. Because of the descriptions in Sibley, the funny call, and the fact that it didn’t really look 14 inches, I guessed that it was a Lesser, but I’m still not absolutely sure.

Then I saw a flash of red through the shrubs. I got my binocs on the bird and made a few notes before he flew away – a black and white back, a black head, and a red breast. Unfortunately, my look had been too brief and the brambles too thick for me to be sure. Later that day, however, I was able to observe plenty of his kin as I wandered an Oklahoma mountain. This time, I noticed that his breast wasn’t completely red and that his tail was lined in white. After flipping through my Sibley for a while, I found the match: Spotted Towhee.

On the drive back, I showed Chelsea Raine and my sister Kelsey pictures of the nine types of woodpeckers I’ve seen. They were surprised: “Wow, you’ve seen that?” “I didn’t know there were different types of woodpeckers!” Watch out, girls.

"The sun’s gettin’ shinery, to spotlight the finery …

2006-03-05T20:38:00.000-06:00

... spring, spring, spring"

My mind has been often frequented by this cheesy song from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers of late. Spring does indeed seem to have finished with the teasing game it plays here each winter and finally decided to stay.

The false garlic and spring beauties I learned to love so much last spring once again dot the reviving grass. The magnolia blooms, turned brown by the recent frost, are now concealed by tiny new leaves. One especially warm day, the pear blossoms flared from their shells. I won't mind leaving them this week though, for the neighborhood will greet me with a row of white trees, and in our backyard, a pear tree I helped plant ten years ago will be waiting.

The other trees needn't worry about still being half naked. Each morning, the blackbirds do a fine job of covering the branches. My ears can scarcely take in all the clattering; of course, the nearby flocks of grackles add to the chaos. The mockingbirds don't mind, though. They perch in the bushes and sing as if they had been holding their carol in all winter. And I can't help smiling as I pass under a tree and look up to see two cardinal pairs, the males in playful chase of the females.

Each afternoon, I rush from class to take a long detour by the pond. I roll up my sleeves and pants and let the wind and sun and dust stain my arms and legs while I enjoy springtime. I study the flowers and listen to the birds. I run and I sing. Sometimes, my feet want sand, so I go to the volleyball courts to shuffle around for a few minutes. Of course, homework is inevitable, and eventually I must return to my computer, shaking off the springtime radiance in a room that seems much too small for it. But I delay that moment for as long as I possibly can.

Braving the elements

2006-02-18T20:34:00.000-06:00

Fjord’s interest in birding has continued to develop, leading to the establishment of a regular birding schedule. The plan is to go every Thursday morning before our 9:30 classes. When I canceled this week’s trip, we agreed to go instead on Saturday. A cold front blew in, though, and I was reluctant to venture out into the freezing rain and 30 degree temperatures.

So we canceled. And I justified it by telling myself that we could go Sunday morning when the thermometer had risen ten degrees. But by Saturday morning, Sunday’s forecast was in the 20s, and I decided that we had better just go before the weather got any colder.

I bundled up in enough layers to make any self-respecting Texan proud and courageously stepped into the wind and frost. Fjord and I walked down to the pond. I hoped that, even if we didn’t see anything new, the more familiar birds would begin to solidify with Fjord, allowing him to be free from my rather unreliable birding leadership.

Grackles greeted us, and several cardinals with cheerful songs. I wondered if my eyes would ever stop watering enough to allow me to see any of the birds.

We didn’t really see too much. I only had about 45 minutes, and most of the birds were clinging close to the houses. We did see a Red-Bellied Woodpecker with a belly bright enough to satisfy even the VAAM, though.

At 10:15 we parted -- Fjord went to his dorm, and I waited for a carpool in the dining-hall parking lot. Unbeknownst to me, the group had left at 10, but I had fun watching the sparrows, warblers, and juncos while I waited. Finally, at 10:45, when I couldn’t feel my toes or bend my fingers, I went back to my heated dorm room.

In the land of storybooks

2006-01-03T22:04:00.000-06:00

Today was a children’s book sort of day. Clear skies, sunshine, warm breezes, happy boys with bare feet -- Elizabeth Enright and Carol Ryrie Brink probably created some of their stories on days like this.

I had lunch outside, while my little brothers ran around in the greenbelt. After lunch, I joined them, stretching out on the trampoline with Les Miserables. Chickadees sang, and a bird I didn’t recognize.

I slipped off the trampoline and walked to a tree teeming with chickadees. Suddenly, I had an unexplainable urge to see them better. I’d watched them all summer long; they certainly weren’t a novelty. Perhaps that’s the thing about birding: The birds are never tiring, no matter how routine they are.

So I ran up the hill to the house to grab my binoculars. I watched the chickadees and then scanned the woods for the bird with the unfamiliar song. Soon I saw it: a Carolina Wren. I’d thought that his was one of the songs that I could identify confidently, but I suppose I have more variations to learn. Oh well.

Then I climbed into the tree fort with my book in one hand, my binoculars in the other, and my brothers close behind me. Life doesn’t get much better than that. The boys took turns looking through the binoculars and swinging off the fort, neighbors stopped by, and I read at leisure, the birds providing a pleasing soundtrack.

The perfect day to spend outside. I’m glad I’m still in college.

... and spontaneity

2006-01-01T22:00:00.000-06:00

On the way out to Spur, Bolt had been reminiscing about a hiking trip he had once taken to Guadalupe. We had no good reason to return home that day, so when we arrived in Abilene, we turned West instead of East.

We drove to the base of the Guadalupe Mountains just as the sun was rising. As we pulled into the campground, Bolt’s headlights shone on a pair of Canyon Towhees. Life birds before the sun had even fully risen! This was going to be a great day.

Bolt chose the nine-mile Bowl hike in hopes of finding Spotted Owls. The day never delivered any of the owls, but it did yield plenty of other birds.

As we climbed, we came to a stretch of the path filled with wrens. Cactus, Canyon, Bewick’s, and Rock Wrens all appeared. The Canyon Wren’s reddish body was my favorite, although I liked the others too.

Flocks of juncos were numerous. They were the same species, but they always looked different. I liked watching their tails spread out when they flew. A Ladder-backed Woodpecker clung to a branch, obligingly letting us look at it in detail.

The wind grew stronger as we neared the top, threatening to blow us off the path, and a lingering cough snatched at air that I would have preferred to designate toward climbing. Still, though, frequent stops for birds gave us plenty of legitimate resting time, and we peaked without too much difficulty.

Having summited, we began the circular hike through the forest. We watched a flock of tiny Bushtits, and Bolt found a Mountain Chickadee among them.

The birds disappeared then, and the wind swept through the forest, battering the trees and our hopes. Not for long, though. Soon we heard a bird, and we looked to see a nuthatch with a bright red breast hammering away at a tree. A few Mountain Chickadees provided better looks than the one we had seen previously, and we sat down to eat our lunch.

During lunch, we once again heard the familiar sound of chickadees, and we abandoned our crackers and peanut butter to pursue the birds. Nuthatches were among the chickadees, and Bolt identified them as Pygmys. Later on, we spotted Acorn Woodpeckers, which brought my acquaintances in the Picidae family up to seven.

A glance at a watch told us that we would need to hurry if we were to fully descend before darkness did, so we bid farewell to the Bowl and all of its birds and headed down the mountain.

Tradition ...

2005-12-31T21:58:00.000-06:00

Bolt goes on a Christmas bird count each year, and since he’s been stuck in the greatest state of all this year, I got to join him on a Texas Christmas bird count.

We left on Friday and broke the five-hour drive up with a brief stop at a lake. A cooperative roadrunner stayed in sight for so long that we eventually left it to look at thrashers and warblers. The lake was fairly empty, but a shore bird walked right past us. I’d spent so much time enjoying the species while Bolt and Lynn attempted an identification in October that I should have known immediately what it was. I didn’t though, and Bolt had to tell me that it was a Least Sandpiper

We arrived in the booming town of Spur, Texas at 7:30 or so and stopped at a tiny Mexican restaurant for dinner. The curve-billed thrashers were life birds for me, and Bolt had seen a life bird the week before, so after dinner we drove across the street to enjoy blizzards.

The bird count began at 7:30 the next morning. We gathered with some other Texans, and the leader divided up the territory. Bolt and I were paired with a father and his almost-ten-year-old son.

I enjoyed the count. I’d heard that they are often rushed and allow little time for enjoying birds, but I found enough time to watch while the others were counting. (I’m just overflowing with team spirit, I know.) I enjoyed the Golden-fronted and Ladder-backed Woodpeckers. Also, the overly abundant kestrels were fun; I felt very familiar with them by the time the day was over.

The day provided two highlights. The first occurred when we stopped at an abandoned shack. We tramped around for a bit, and soon, Barn Owls began flying out of the building. We guessed that there were three of them, although they seemed much more numerous. They flew into the surrounding trees and would fly away and back again, over and over. Amazing.

The second highlight was the turkey. We’d heard it for a while, and I wanted to see it. I’m not really sure why I’ve wanted so much to see a turkey, but I have. We drove slowly down the highway, scanning the tall grass. Suddenly, it appeared. I got a short look at it, but not long enough. A police officer stopped us to caution us about the danger of pausing in the middle of the road, and we didn’t see the bird again.

Of course I enjoyed the other birds too. The ravens and the hawks and the meadowlarks and the finches and the quail and the Pyrrhuloxia and the many other species that showed up during the day … 33, to be exact.

We decided to skip to compilation dinner and head back to Dallas early. Plans can change, though, and ours certainly did.

My election

2005-12-09T13:18:00.000-06:00

During her times of little birding, another LOL member recorded memories. I’d prefer not to let two months slip by without any posting, so maybe I should follow her example.

I've been wondering lately about when my election first came. I know I started birding last semester, but surely the interest was there before that.

Like most people, I loved feeding the ducks as a child. That can’t exactly be called election, though; it’s too common. I loved watching bluebirds and cardinals in our backyard, although I never paid much heed to the brown birds.

When I was seven, I decided that I never wanted to leave Texas. I’d made a wonderful discovery: Every time I looked up at the sky, I would see a bird. My experimentations never failed. No other place that I’d visited in my seven years could make such a tremendous boast. This was the best state EVER!

But there was another state I loved. My grandparents lived in Washington. They had built a home in Semiahmoo, overlooking Semiahmoo Bay and White Rock Canada. Their beautiful house was two stories and had a huge balcony. The entire side facing the water consisted of windowpanes.

As it is with most houses, the kitchen was the heart of the home. Screen doors near the bay window provided access to a balcony spanning the length of the house, and outdoors and indoors mingled effortlessly.

And on the kitchen counter, a pair of binoculars resided. The binoculars provided close-up views of Canada, sailboats, and, of course, birds. I didn’t know many of them, but I divided them up into two groups: The Bald Eagles were Bald Eagles, and the others were seagulls.

The eagles liked to rest in the tall pines near my grandparents’ backyard. Whenever we spotted one, the news would circulate among my sisters and me, and we would all clamor for a turn with the binoculars. The glimpses were never long enough, but I think I can credit them with my love for birds.

Of course the election calling came in other ways too. Perhaps it came from my neighbor’s house with all of its birdfeeders. Or from seeing the nest at the arboretum that one morning. But undoubtedly, it came partially from those happy summers spent watching the eagles in Semiahmoo.

Beauty irresistable

2005-10-19T19:37:00.000-05:00

The days have been glorious of late, bringing with them warm sunshine and restorative breezes. Sometimes, their pull is too strong, and I have to respond.

I meant to get straight to work after class today. I even started walking to my room. I was weak, though, and soon found myself listening to the water trickling down the rocks at the pond. The picnic table was nearby, the perfect place for working. But, alas, I was weak again. Plopping my bag down, I left the table, never once looking back.

I couldn’t find too many birds at first, and I wondered if 90 degrees was still too hot for them. Crickets scampered at my feet, though, and a few butterflies played among the flowers.

Then I heard a happy yelp, and I looked up to see a Red-bellied Woodpecker busy at a tree. He looked smaller than most I’ve seen, but perhaps he wasn’t. At first, his red head was barely visible, but then he turned, allowing me to see its full brilliancy. A few doves fluttered by.

Eventually, I resumed my wander down the path. I saw briefly what I supposed to be a Ruby-crowned Kinglet, but it dashed through the fence before I had a chance to look.

The bell tower chimed, reminding me of that unnatural thing called time, and I turned back. The woodpecker and the doves detained me for a few moments, but I soon continued.

I thought I spotted movement, so I stopped. A bird flew to a further tree, and I hoped he would return. He did, and he proved to be a Downy Woodpecker. I watched him climbing upside down, hammering his beak against the wood. I could see faintly the movement of the doves in the trees across the path, and I knew the Red-bellied Woodpecker was with them.

Then I really had to leave. So I did, reluctantly.

The unknown

2005-10-13T19:29:00.000-05:00

Today I was walking to class, and I thought I saw a bird on the ground. I walked slowly up to it and began to doubt. Perhaps it was really a leaf. But no, it was indeed a bird, a Brown Thrasher.

He wasn’t afraid of me, and I came quite close. He pecked at a worm for a while and then waddled closer to me. His feathers were ruffled and patched. His beak opened and shut, as if he were singing, but no sound came out. He never stopped doing this, and he never flew away.

I wonder what he was doing. I wonder why.

Answers

2005-10-04T14:50:00.000-05:00

The last five months have been characterized by a desire to be able to once again ask “What’s that?” or “Why this?” and have an immediate answer. Finally, my longing was satiated. Bolt came through Longview on the way to Dallas, and Fjord’s eagerness to try birding with the expert soon reserved the following morning for the hobby.

I’d never skipped a class for pleasure before. But I did this morning. It was worth it.

With two pairs of binoculars between the three of us, we left Thomas lobby at seven and drove to 254, where swifts and cardinals greeted our arrival. Titmice and chickadees were abundant, familiar birds from home. Blue jays flopped past, and crows cawed, sometimes flying intently overhead.

Ruby-crowned Kinglets were there, but we never got more than a few brief glimpses of them. A Carolina Wren also called from the brush; he proved more willing to be seen than the kinglets. Thrashers called from high up in the trees, and two Pileated Woodpeckers flew right above us.

Later, a Coopers Hawk flew by, scattering a few doves. I saw an unfamiliar bird, and Bolt said it was an Indigo Bunting in its fall plumage. Its pale blue body and brown head were faded remnants of its spring glory, but its shape was still familiar. Another unfamiliar bird sat on a tree far away. I passed my binoculars to the Guru, and he quickly identified it as a Kestral Falcon.

After a brief walk by the pond, we drove back to campus. Throughout the morning, I made full use of my opportunity to ask any question I wanted -- questions I’d been wondering about for some time and questions that randomly popped into my head, too small to put in an email -- and have an immediate response. Answers are satisfying.

Autumn

2005-09-29T11:14:00.000-05:00

Fall is here! Today’s cool breeze made the hot, dry summer worthwhile. The students who didn’t pass their summers in Texas surely couldn’t have appreciated today as much as I did.

Temperatures dropped to the upper 60s, and we donned long sleeves and sweatshirts. I rollerbladed around the loop and was treated to a wilder symphony than I’d heard in a long time. Mockingbirds and sparrows were especially vocal.

Later, I took my homework outside. I must confess that I didn’t fare very well with Heart of Darkness. My attention was drawn away by the mockingbird singing in the branches above me and the pigeons flying nearby.

I’m excited to see the new birds that will come through with the cold weather. I doubt that I will recognize them, but it’ll be fun to try

Welcome, Autumn.

Death

2005-09-13T22:39:00.000-05:00

I should be studying. Instead, I walk, wondering over a love that would leave seven children fatherless and thrust a 17-year-old boy into the role of father and comforter to his family.

A raging sun sets, furiously, passionately. Beautiful, but angry. Chafing laughter grates from the football game. Hot tears.

Doves and mockingbirds. A swift, closer than usual. Crickets and cicadas, steadfast and constant.

I stroke a red leaf. Autumn is coming. Some have said that we don’t have fall here, but we do. Miniscule creatures scurry at my feet. The sky is now a deep, deep blue, the West swirled with purples and oranges. Killdeer trot on the now vacant fields, whistling as they play. All of creation testifying, responding to an omnipotent Creator.

I don’t understand, but I trust.

Paradise lost

2005-09-10T01:08:00.000-05:00

The open gate was the first clue that something was wrong. The gate’s supposed to be closed and locked.

I was attempting a birding trip with Michaela, Andrew, Fjord, and Ludwhig. Our destination was the iron bridge road. I’d longed for that endless road all summer. The place was like paradise, I told Fjord. I was excited to go back.

It was destroyed though. As we started walking, Andrew noticed that the leaves were red with dirt and dust from frequent traffic. Soon we heard the repulsive roar and beeping of numerous trucks. The tree-canopied road was canopied no longer. A large clearing was filled with generators, semi-trucks, and construction and tractor type equipment. I wanted to cry.

We walked along, moving aside every few minutes to let a semi pass, and I helplessly tried to describe to Ludwhig and Fjord the beauty that the iron bridge road once had.

The lake was still filled with egrets. We stopped to watch, but the bridge was too narrow for both the five of us and the semi-trucks, so we moved on.

Gate 29 was open, so we walked through. Aside from the modern background noise, the road there was unchanged. We enjoyed the beauty around us, although we saw few birds. On our way back, we stopped to watch the sunset from the iron bridge. Traffic had ceased by then, so we were free to watch in peace.

As we left, we issued a name change. The Iron Bridge Road is now called Paradise Lost.

Beauty on campus

2005-09-04T23:51:00.000-05:00

It’s good to be back at school. I haven’t seen as many herons and egrets as at home, but birds of prey fly over campus often. When the East is still the faintest pink, robins dot the ground. The days are finally cooling off. In fact, weather.com predicts 62 degrees for tonight. I wasn’t ready to go back to the dorm after dinner, so I dropped my shoes off behind a bush and started walking.

The streets were dusty, but the grass was cool and clean. The crickets were noisy. A few birdcalls I did not know rang out from the trees, and a nighthawk flew in between Tyler and the chapel site.

The stars in Longview may be dim, but still they’re beautiful. The trees are getting fewer and fewer, but still the front of campus has magestic, huge pines. The sounds of Mobberly are constant, and Narf threatens to deafen us all, but still crickets and cicadas persevere. I love wild, unadulterated nature, but even the smallest bit of creation is beautiful.

Escapades with junior birders

2005-08-27T23:22:00.000-05:00

Part of loving something is passing that love down to others. That’s why I’m a birder now, I think.

As soon as I came home from school, I introduced my three and four-year-old brothers to the world of birding. They quickly caught on to my enthusiasm. Trips to the library would produce a plethora of bird books in our home, and the boys were always anxious to view the birds I pointed out to them.

Nathan and William enjoy one of their many bird books

August 26

I had four children to myself tonight, and a trip to the pond seemed a good way to pass the evening. Armed with a bottle, a stroller, diapers, water, and bread, we departed.

The children were eager to begin feeding the ducks

We looked at mockingbirds and fed ducks. When night fell, I pointed to the bats circling over the water. William had recently lamented the fact that he had never seen a bat, so I was happy to remedy that.

William looks at mockingbirds

Feeding the ducks

August 27

A cold front came through today, bringing with it temperatures just above 85 and a welcome breeze that woke up the sleeping trees. I took Nathan and the binoculars to the backyard. I pointed out swifts and cardinals. Nathan had more luck on his own, however. Some of his proclamations were a catbird, a cowbird, an eagle, and a Purple Finch. If only I could find some of those birds in Dallas.

Nathan looks at swifts

Restoration

2005-08-24T22:56:00.000-05:00

Today was a hot day. Even I wouldn’t have sent the children to spend the day outside. A morning drive from Longview to Dallas followed by an entire day cooped up in the house with six children under six-years-old tired me and tested my patience. I even snapped at a few of my family members this evening.

Exhausted and ashamed, I left the five preschoolers playing in the backyard and took the baby for a walk. The day was cool by then, -- the temperature might have even ducked close to 90 -- and life was showing in my beloved neighborhood. Children played basketball while adults watered their parched lawns. I smiled at friends and then turned my attention to the sky.

Mourning doves flew over first -- calming birds. I used to dislike them. I rounded the corner and seven swallows fluttered past. Cliffs, I think. I brought binoculars, but I hadn’t used them for so long that I forgot to look through them.

At the top of the hill, a sparrow’s round body darted past. Crickets and cicadas sang their evening chorus. Mockingbirds and sparrows were plenteous, and a cardinal or two played among the rooftops.

As I neared home, more birds began coming out. I would have enjoyed another walk around the block, but home duties called me back. Above the greenbelt, swifts dotted the sky. I went inside.

God's in His Heaven,
all's right with the world.

An evening dance

2005-08-21T22:41:00.000-05:00

Feeling sick for my farewell party meant that I didn’t have to play volleyball. Instead, I stretched out on the church building’s back steps and watched twilight steal over the sky.

Soon the birds came. Birds! In the craziness of the past few days I had forgotten. I gazed intently and greeted the creatures I had come to know so well during the summer.

The swifts took the stage. They waltzed and twirled, and I wished I could join in.

Next a few doves dashed across. Why are they always in such a hurry?

Mockingbirds flapped behind them, sometimes coming close enough to allow me to see their markings.

Then came the star – the nighthawk. Aside from a brief glimpse of a few while driving through West Texas, I hadn’t seen any since before I had learned what they were. Then, I was focused on identification. Now, though, I could enjoy the bird.

I recognized the white stripes on the underside of the wings. I had tried to attempt an identification with only those at first. I hadn’t noticed the way the wings sweep back so gracefully, the triangular head, the way the birds flutter.

All too soon, the nighthawks made their exit. The rest of the dance was filled with the usual birds. Usual, but not really usual. How can any part of creation be usual?

Soon little brothers needed care, so I went inside, feeling restored and refreshed from my night with the birds.

Be still

2005-08-20T13:05:00.000-05:00

I’ve been busy these days. From the first cry in the morning to the final kisses at night, I scarcely have time to think, much less to bird. I can still rejoice in my Father’s creation, though.

While helping the youth group with a car wash, I marvel at the multitude of rock pigeons flying above. While taking the little ones on a walk, I smile at the sparrows and mockingbirds and point them out to eager young eyes. While busy in my room, I watch the birds playing in our neighbors’ crape myrtles. Sometime soon, I’ll find the time to refill the feeder. Then I’ll indulge in brief glances at buzzing titmice and chickadees.

“Be still and know that I am God,” the Bible says. Even in the midst of crazy outside circumstances, we can admire the Lord’s creation and do just what His word says.

The hummingbird's return

2005-08-17T10:50:00.000-05:00

I’ve always loved hummingbirds. When I was very young, our neighbors had a feeder and would talk of the tiny hummingbirds they saw there. I remember being somewhat jealous of their little boys. They got to see hummingbirds routinely, while I had to content myself with pictures.

Then, one day, a large group of neighbor kids gathered in the bird-lovers’ home, and the birds came. We stood at the window and watched in wonder. Amidst a chorus of “ahhs,” each girl declared her intention to put a feeder up in her backyard.

That feeder granted us many days of fascination. Although I was not a birder at the time – indeed, had never even heard the word – I could still appreciate the beauty of those delicate creatures. Then the feeder broke.

Since then, our backyard has been hummingbirdless. Until today. This morning, I glanced out the kitchen window to see a familiar blur. A hummingbird had found my sister’s container garden.

Hopefully, the few weeks before school will bring many of the birds to our backyard.

The barren land his dwelling

2005-07-28T17:38:00.000-05:00

We struggled, gasping for breath. Each step was torture, each breath agony. The windswept slopes were gray and barren. Focusing on each single step, we climbed on.

Finally, victory. The Continental Divide. The wind roared as we panted and gazed. Snow-capped peaks, clear alpine lakes, forests, meadows, mountain streams -- beauty inconceivable.

Then, it came. A solitary swallow, struggling in the thin air. I didn’t see the species. Perhaps there was a flash of color; I really can’t say. It fluttered over the divide. And it was gone.

We turned our attention to the beauty around us, raising our voices in praise of our Creator. All too soon, we had to resume our five-day trek. My mind will forever hold an image, though -- the image of a lone struggling swallow fighting the fierce winds high above the world.

In the backyard

2005-07-11T23:35:00.000-05:00

Summertime in Texas. All the world seems pale, hot, and hazy. The thermometer alone burns brilliantly. Defying the meteorologists’ warnings, I step out the back door.

Chickadees and titmice speed from the greenbelt to our backyard -- back and forth. They whirl around the feeder and occasionally pause on the Bradford Pear. Darting to the seeds, they fill their beaks and then rush to their homes in the woods. What busy little birds!

Now a cardinal rests on the feeder while his mate waits on a nearby branch. Mockingbirds perch along the fence, well aware of their backyard sovereignty. House Sparrows hop in the grass. Above the greenbelt, an egret propels through the thick air. A hot breeze stirs the sleeping trees. Dragonflies circle lazily over the yard, and the cicada’s rattle nearly drowns out a neighbor’s lawn mower.

And so life flourishes -- even on a heavy, still summer afternoon.

A summer storm

2005-07-01T16:03:00.000-05:00

This month foreshadows a summer much hotter than last year’s. The humidity is already oppressive, and the drought that usually hits in July or August has stretched its fingers into June this year as well. Today’s thunderstorm, then, was a welcome relief.

The house grew dark, and we knew it was coming. My sister and brother and I went outside and watched. The trees lost their mellow summertime color and adopted an electric green hue. The wind was strong. It tangled up the greenbelt and threatened the lives of the smallest trees.

My sister and I stretched ourselves on the warm patio pavement and watched the battle raging in the sky. Light and dark warred against each other while flashes of lighting split the sky in two. The stormy gray overpowered the few spots of light, sweeping over them with intense power. Soon, only a small blot of white was left. The dark attacked it, surrounding it on all sides. And it was gone.

Several doves sped past, and a swift or two struggled high, high up amid the swirling mass of gray.

All was wild and untamed. The greenbelt churned, the clouds whorled, the wind bellowed, and, in the Northeast, the thunder crashed.

Then the rain came. Huge, frothing drops. Slowly at first, then faster, then in torrents. We stood and watched. Then we ran. We ran around the backyard, then through the gate and into the field. We circled the field, swinging around trees and leaping across ditches, joining the wild, untamed nature in reckless praise of our Father’s creation. A crash of thunder streaked across the sky, starting as a distant rumble in the North, growing to a roar, and culminating in an explosion above our heads. And we rejoiced.

The storm was short, but it cleared away the humidity and cleansed the stagnate air. Now the birds are back.

A day with the birds

2005-06-18T14:24:00.000-05:00

Our home sprang to life at five o’clock this morning. My parents and four of my siblings were going to pick blueberries. I, however, was off to expand my knowledge of the birding world.

Lynn and I met in Benbrook and headed to Benbrook Lake. The name conjures up images of a morning sun sparkling on blue water, trees fringing the lake’s edges. Such was not to be our lot, however.

Despite its dearth of water, the park proved a pleasant place, aided by a cool morning breeze and cheery sunshine. Titmice buzzed in a tree at the park, and a small brown bird piqued our curiosity by lending us a few short glances.

We wandered over a small bridge and watched what we supposed to be a Phoebe play on a log near the water. The bridge spilled onto a golf course. There was no fence, so we entered. We watched titmice and soon identified the brown bird to be a Carolina Wren.

The golf course’s supply of birds was abundant, but we were soon informed that we could not be merely strolling around the green. The gentleman offered us a ride to the edge of the course, and, presently, we were treading on permissible terrain.

We decided to stick to the trail after that. Herons and egrets flew overhead, woodpeckers worked on a tree, and barn swallows circled a field.

After a brief stop at a campground, we made our way to the Fort Worth Nature Refuge. One of its attractions was a large window overlooking a courtyard of birdfeeders. Chickadees, titmice, blackbirds, and hummingbirds claimed this place as their summer home.

We spent a long time at the refuge. An unfamiliar bird turned out to be a Great-crested Flycatcher. We saw a Prothonotary Warbler near the boardwalk and many, many herons. White-eyed Vireos took delight in tormenting us throughout the day. We had plenty of opportunities to become familiar with their song but were only able to catch one brief glimpse of the bird. This perversity earned the species the new name of “Black-eyed Mockingbird.”

On the way back, we stopped briefly to enjoy the air-conditioned view from the picture window. This time, several painted buntings were visiting. The lighting was perfect, and we were able to enjoy detailed looks at the brilliant birds.

We tried finding several other places after we left the refuge. The esteemed people of Benbrook, however, do not seem overly fond of street signs, and we soon discovered the futility of trying to find our way around a town lacking these insignificant bits of metal.

We parted at five, after a tiring, but very pleasing day of birding. Our search yielded 33 species. Although some might question the success of such a number, I can’t be dissatisfied. We were, after all, two novices in summertime. The day provided plenty of opportunity for verifying songs and markings and familiarizing ourselves with other necessities of birding.

Everyday pleasures and momentous victories

2005-06-16T14:23:00.000-05:00

Although I have not done any active birding of late, I have been observing and watching as often as I can.

My friends and I walk along the Duck Creek Trails in the morning. They talk and laugh, but I am in another world. The birds are performing for me. The Cardinal takes the melody. The chickadees and doves harmonize until the pervasive Mockingbird eagerly usurps the production.

I’ve grown up with the Blue Jay. I remember being a little girl, eyes wide with wonder, staring at this bright bird perched on the fence. The bird is no less magnificent today. Recently, I saw a family of blue jays. The two fledglings waited on a branch, tail feathers still short and only a bit of fuzz to serve as a crest. Both parents soon arrived, and the baby birds attempted squeaky imitations of their parents’ harsh calls.

Among these common pleasures, I have made several noteworthy discoveries. The first I owe to the Vice Secretary for Appropriate Avian Monikers. Her report sent me to Sibley to confirm a bird I had been wondering about for some time. It proved to be, like she said, a Common Nighthawk.

Another victory was in a bird I had seen several times while walking around the Duck Creek Trails. I hadn’t observed much about it, but still, after one walk, decided to see what I could find in Sibley. The Yellow-crowned Night-Heron looked similar. Another walk granted the opportunity for further observation, and the identification was confirmed.

With new eyes

2005-06-07T07:38:00.000-05:00

I never would have imagined that my despised community college would prove such a copious haven for birds. I snatch any available moments each day to look at and enjoy the fauna on campus. Of course, sparrows, chickadees, grackles, cardinals, jays, and scissortails are always plenteous. The Western Kingbird was my most recent discovery. On Monday, I heard another bird to add to my ever-growing plethora of companions. Several birds exchanged shrill whistles from the rooftops of campus. I hadn’t brought binoculars, so I strained my eyes to observe this new species, resolving to bring my optics the next day.

Today I rushed out of class, the Romantics and their literature swirling in my head, and listened for the whistle. Success. I would soon be acquainted with another bird. I raised my binoculars and gazed. Striped throat, gray back, long legs. Grabbing my tuition receipt and a pen, I jotted down what I saw.

Then it flew. I caught my breath, all previous aims for merely checking a bird off of my list dissolved. The bird sailed, effortlessly, wings swept back in graceful ease. I saw a stroke of watercolor-white upon each wing and a flash of yellow on the tail. When it landed I admired more deeply the sharp black-and-white collar and the alert, vigilant posture.

Sibley said the bird was a Killdeer. I remember Bolt pointing those out on my very first day birding. For some reason, though, I have no recollection of the birds themselves. I remember a few birds grouped on the ground; my notes merely read, “The one on the ground. It had black and white stripes on the front.” Nothing remarkable. Nothing noteworthy. Today was different though. I don’t know what made the difference. I do know, however, that today I saw -- truly saw -- with my own eyes.

Another victim

2005-06-02T23:42:00.000-05:00

The Master's influence continues to grow. Michaela confessed to me that she has been noticing birds and wondering about them. Of course, she is having the usual trouble with identification.
"I saw one the other day," she informed me. "It looked like a ... White-bellied ... Pigeon-hawk."

Perhaps we should ask the Vice-Secretary for Appropriate Avian Monikers about making it official.

Colored birds, at last

2005-06-01T00:07:00.000-05:00

Having to wait for a ride home from class today granted me a few minutes to look at birds; I seized the opportunity. Eastfield College was alive with birds of all different sizes. Sparrows and Chickadees sang from high up in the treetops. Mourning Doves waddled on the ground. Great-tailed Grackles paraded around campus. I pulled my binoculars from my backpack and merely smiled at the puzzled glances of fellow students.

Then I saw it … a colored bird. Outside of Blue Jays and Cardinals, I hadn’t seen one since I left East Texas. I followed this one, hoping to get a closer look. I had never seen them before, I’m sure, but the campus today was teeming with the gray-backed, yellow-bellied birds. They flew from tree to tree, across parking lots, above the heads of sightless students, and even into nests. I looked carefully, taking in every detail I could.

I wandered toward the Motley graveyard. Downy Woodpeckers bobbed on the tree trunks, a pair of Blue Jays called loudly, a scissortail stood, stately and dignified, in a parking space, and several of the colored birds perched on the iron fence.

When I got home, I searched for the colored bird in my recently-acquired Sibley. I flipped through, looking for the general shape, and landed among the Tyrannidae family. A quick hunt revealed a bird I recognized. Every detail was the same – the yellow belly, the white breast, the gray head and back, the darker area around the eyes, the black tail with the thin, white edging. A Western Kingbird. My first life bird to identify on my own.

Another road

2005-05-30T19:54:00.000-05:00

Due to the Memorial Day holiday, the six-forty morning saw me heading out the door and into the cool, overcast world outside. Tired of the greenbelt I had grown up in, I decided to venture into the great unknowns outside of Trails Neighborhood. This pursuit led me on a mile hike to the entrance of the neighborhood and then across Northwest Drive to the retirement center on the other side. On the way, two Great Blue Herons and three Great Egrets soared overhead, and a mockingbird, looking quite pleased with his repertoire, sang from a treetop.

Behind the retirement center, I had recently discovered, was a large portion of uncleared land. Cardinals sped over the wildflower-carpeted earth, while chickadees buzzed from inside the forest. I saw a small road, clearly a play place for pickup-truck drivers, and I decided to take it.

I walked for a while, enjoying the melodies around me and a few quick glances at birds. The road eventually led to a small back street near Dallas Christian and Baylor Medical Center. I started back, stopping at the bridge on Northwest to watch Barn Swallows.

On the way back through the neighborhood I paused at the soccer fields to watch two shrikes chasing each other

A series of unfortunate events

2005-05-29T01:04:00.000-05:00

Our neighborhood has suffered a loss. To read of the misadventures of little Lemony Snicket, OE as penned by Jenny, click here.

Lemony Snicket didn't have a chance

A morning outdoors

2005-05-27T18:42:00.000-05:00

It had been two weeks since I had done any serious birding. I had no class today, so this morning seemed a good one to devote to my new hobby.

I started by walking down to the golf course. Although I walked for a while, I didn’t really see anything. Chickadees, Cardinals, Blue Jays – I saw the basic birds but nothing more. By about eight, golfers were beginning to come out. Since they pay to be on the course, I decided I would relinquish my birding field to them.

Next, I walked in the opposite direction, down toward Audubon Park and Duck Creek. I saw a Great Blue Heron and a Great Egret fly overhead. A hawk also flew by, but I was unable to identify it.

I saw a woodpecker perched on a telephone pole. It proved very uncooperative. I spent several minutes walking back and forth through nearly chin-high grass, but I never got a really good look. Later on, however, a Red-bellied Woodpecker came right into the open, allowing me a long look at it.
I walked as far as I could without going to the already-crowded park, but soon I had to turn around. I was back by nine – just in time to help feed my little brothers.

On my own

2005-05-13T18:41:00.000-05:00

I’ve been feeling pretty desperate to go birding. Yesterday, I discovered that our tissue box had pictures of birds on it, and I felt so satisfied and happy. I took that as a hint that it was time to get out there and see what I could do on my own.

I got up at 7:30 and was stepping out the back door at around eight. The morning was cool, overcast, and muggy. I wasn’t really sure where I would go, so I began at the tree line behind our backyard. I followed it a while but didn’t see anything. The golf course behind the Hironagas' seemed a good option, so I meandered in that direction. I stopped to watch two male Cardinals fight. A female was on the ground, so perhaps that was the issue. I listened to their song for a while, trying to get it to stick. The basic one (if there is such a thing) is becoming familiar, but the little variations are confusing.

Upon arriving at the golf course, I heard several Chickadees. I searched for a while but was unable to spot anything. I also heard a repeating buzz. Again I searched but was only able to catch a short glimpse at a medium-sized bird with a crest.

I walked slowly, hoping to see something. A circle of trees in the middle of the golf course proved a popular place for Blue Jays, Cardinals, and Chickadees. I peered into their world – one that I could not enter but intrigued me nonetheless.

My walk continued, but soon the golfers started coming out. I had to rush past them in order to get out of their driving field; the time seemed right for heading back home.

On my way back, I stopped to try to get another glimpse at the buzzing bird. This stop yielded several good looks. The bird had a white breast and a gray back and crest. I guessed Tufted Titmouse. I looked it up online when I got home, and the one on the internet looked the same, a bit fluffier, but pretty similar nonetheless. The song clip didn’t sound at all like the one I heard though.

Overall, I was pleased with my birding experience this morning. Granted, I didn’t see much, but it was a good beginning. Bolt laid a good foundation, so hopefully now I can carry it forward on my own.

The last time

2005-05-06T16:36:00.000-05:00

I’d thought that Wednesday would be my last time birding, but I was wrong. Bolt informed us that he would be going on Friday morning. Michaela decided to come along too. She said she had been wanting to see what it was like.

We met at 6:30 and headed to Bolt’s Buick for the last time. We drove slowly on the Hut Horton road. Dickcissels had arrived. Apparently their name comes from their song, but I don’t think it sounds like they are saying “dickcissel” at all. Several perched on branches near the roadside, and we stopped the car to get a close look.

Finally, I got to see one … actually, four. They were worth the wait. The first Painted Bunting was on the road. Although I couldn’t see the brilliancy of the color, I was still awed. The next one was especially visible. It perched on a branch, and we were able to see each distinct color.

A flock of kingbirds flew overhead. I really like those birds. A Phoebe flew around the cemetery, and Barn Swallows circled overhead.

Next, we went to my favorite place: the iron bridge road. The road hadn’t yet disappointed, and today was no exception. We saw a Chat and plenty of Summer Tanagers. Several White-crowned Sparrows hopped along the road in front of us. A White-eyed Vireo sang, its song punctuated with exclamation marks, and we saw several Pine Warblers.

All too soon, it was time to turn around. On the walk back to the car, I stole frequent glances behind me. A bit like Lot’s wife, perhaps. I’m going to miss the iron bridge road. I hope we get to come back someday.

Another chance

2005-05-04T18:34:00.000-05:00

Bolt graduates this week. Since I don’t know how much birding I’ll get to do once he’s gone, I’ve been hoping that we would have another chance to go this week. This morning, my wish was fulfilled.

The weather was perfect, he said. We would keep in touch. At ten, the IM came: “Let’s blow this joint.” I grabbed my tennis shoes and binoculars and ran down the stairs to meet him in the Thomas lobby.

I was pleased to discover that we were going back to the iron bridge road. I love that place.

We heard many Painted Buntings throughout the day. I even caught a few fleeting glimpses of their bright colors as they dashed across the road. Nothing more though. I can’t wait to REALLY see one. I look at their pictures all the time. Someday…

After hearing its funny sounds for a while, we finally saw a Chat. I liked it just as much as I had liked its songs the week before.

When we got to the bridge, I saw a black and white bird soaring past. Later, Bolt spotted an Osprey sitting in a tree. It looked like the bird I had seen earlier. Egrets were also plentiful.

Past the bridge, we saw several warblers. We found two Blackpoll Warblers. They didn’t boast any of the bright colors that I’ve come to associate with warblers, but they were striking black and white little birds. We also saw a Tennessee Warbler and a Yellow-throated Warbler.

A small clearing granted us a nice, long look at a White-eyed Vireo. Sensitive Brier sprawled out on the ground, and we bent down and stroked its fern-like leaves.

Bolt had an exit interview at one, so we were forced to turn reluctantly around. We got distracted several times on the way back, but eventually, the real world’s pull became so strong that we had to pick up our pace and ignore the songs all around us.

The interview was cancelled. We could have seen more birds.

The iron bridge road

2005-04-23T18:30:00.000-05:00

I was up early to meet Bolt and Andrew in the Thomas lobby again. First, we went to Shroud and Bev’s apartment where a House Finch chose to lay her nest in their hanging pot. Bolt gently took the pot down and handed it to Andrew. We gazed in wonder while Bolt snapped a few pictures of the nestlings. Then we were off.

This was my first visit to the iron bridge road. It captured me immediately. Honeysuckle and Spiderwort lined the narrow dirt road, and the nearby lake sparkled. The one discomfort was the cold wind. I brought a jacket but was still cold. Bolt didn’t even have that much. I guess the older sister in me surfaced; I had a hard time focusing on birds while he was so cold.

After a short time of walking, we came upon the iron bridge itself. I can’t say that it was the most impressive structure, but the birds it allowed us to see more than made up for that. Great Egrets, Snowy Egrets, Great Blue Herons, Pelicans – the lake was brimming with all of these. I had no idea that such incredible birds were so close to me for all these months.

As we continued walking, the day warmed up. Really, it turned out to be a glorious day – the type of day that makes me want to jump and sing and forget about responsibility for a while. Indigo Buntings were plenteous. Bolt spotted a Painted Bunting, but I only had time to see the flash of a red tail as the bird flew across the road.

The road took a turn that led to the railroad tracks. Nearby, a gate stood open, beckoning to us. We answered its call.

The road took us first through an open, sandy area. Then it led to a creek and a marsh-like habitat. We heard a Chat singing; I liked the diversity of its music. Although we searched for the bird, we couldn’t find it.

The road didn’t want us to turn around, I know. We had to though. We resolutely set our faces toward college and homework, but apparently we didn’t have quite enough determination. A small sign claimed that a branch of the road belonged to LeTourneau. “Shall we take it?” Bolt asked.

As soon as we turned in, I gasped in awe. Before me lay the most fairy-taleish road I had seen. Cool East Texas dirt, brilliant wildflowers, trees bent over in a canopy, sunlight dancing in dozens of filtered patterns –beauty greater than I could have imagined.

I’m sure we saw something on that magical stretch of road, but I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention.

That section of road ended in a gas well, unfortunately. Then, we really did have to go back. As we walked, Bolt informed us of the various trees and flowers. We also got a good look at a beautiful Prothonotary Warble. Its bright yellow feathers stood out as it sang for us.

The learning continues...

2005-04-16T18:30:00.000-05:00

Today was my third time birding. I met Bolt in the Thomas lobby, a few minutes late, much to my embarrassment. We drove out to Henderson, remaining silent for most of the journey.

We arrived at New Hope cemetery shortly after Jason. Bolt introduced us, and then we began birding.

Several trees near the cemetery were filled with all those little birds – Gnatcatchers, Chickadees, and Titmice. Bolt called me over and pointed to a distant tree. He directed me toward a Blue Grosbeak. I gazed in wonder, yesterday’s sighting not detracting from today’s in the least.

Two bird songs were more distinctive than the others. The first Bolt identified as a Sedge Wren. We searched for it but were unsuccessful. The second was an ascending buzz that belonged to a Prairie Warbler. After hiding for a short time, the bird decided to grant us a long and satisfying look. He perched on a tree near the roadside, singing loudly and flaunting his bright colors.

We drove to a bridge and watched as Cliff Swallows circled. Two scissor-tails perched on a power line, and a hawk lent us a brief glance.

We walked up and down the road for several hours. A brilliant red bird flew past, revealing itself to be a Summer Tanager. On a little tree by the road, we saw an Indigo Bunting. The bird was breathtaking – the deepest of blues. I still haven’t gotten used to seeing so many colorful birds in real life. Those are for storybooks; real life holds either gray or brown birds. The Indigo Bunting didn’t seem to know that, however.

As we were peering through our binoculars, two surveyors came up and questioned us. We weren’t very friendly – I didn’t even speak at all. I guess we forgot about good ol’ Texan kindness. Consequently, they were abrupt and left shortly.

A Pileated Woodpecker began climbing up a nearby pole. The bird was really incredible. It had a triangular-shaped red head and a black body. It jerked up and down as it walked. I would have enjoyed a close and long look at it.
After a few hours, the day became warm. I was hungry and was having trouble ignoring the pain in my leg. We left for school, gearing ourselves for the responsibilities of the real world.

Birds and a beaver

2005-04-15T18:30:00.000-05:00

Bolt took me birding again today. Andrew came too. He knows much more about birds than I do. I feel like I know nothing.

We drove out towards Hallsville to bird. Indian Paintbrush, Coreopsis, and Crimson Clover lined the roadside. The day was cloudy, but patches of blue still gleamed through the clouds.

Bolt drove us to a place that had been strip-mined. It was a meadow area with recently planted pines. The road was a dead-end, so we rolled down our windows and drove slowly, keeping alert for any song. Bolt spotted an Eastern Meadowlark on the fence wire. It had a yellow breast and either a brown or a gray back. Its song was short and somewhat shrill.

Once we had climbed from the car, Andrew eyed the first bird. It was entirely blue, barring a slight discolor on its wing. We asked Bolt, and he said that it was a Blue Grosbeak, a summer bird. It was the first he had seen of them this year.

Walking around an old-fashioned church and graveyard, we saw plenty of mockingbirds, their vocal diversity amazing us and causing some quiet laughter. Among them, we saw several Blue-Grey Gnatcatchers. They were tiny little birds that looked much like mockingbirds. Later on, we saw Chickadees and Titmice flying with the Gnatcatchers. I couldn’t tell them apart. They are all light gray and small, seemingly bouncing from branch to branch.

Barn Swallows were abundant by the church. They were much smaller than I would have expected—dark, long-tailed birds. A Chimney Swift flew overhead, but not close enough to get a good look at it.

An Eastern Phoebe teased us with its phoebe call until we finally spotted it. It was a small bird with a thick beak. Unfortunately, many of the details are running in with the other birds.

Red-winged blackbirds were probably the most common in that area. They were solid black and each boasted a bright red spot and a yellow stripe on its wing.

As we were walking through the cemetery, Bolt thought that he heard a Northern Bobwhite Quail call. We looked and didn’t see anything, so we assumed that it was just a mockingbird. A few moments later, however, the quail went flying through the cemetery. Bolt was surprised; he said that they are becoming pretty rare.

Our drive to the next place lent us a glance at several big birds. We saw a Great Blue Heron soaring overhead, a group of Turkey Vultures sitting in a tree, and later, a smaller Green Heron. Eventually, we also saw a Black Vulture. Its head was bigger than the Turkey Vulture’s, and it had white on its wings.

The gate was locked at the next cemetery. We climbed over, but I tripped a bit. It was embarrassing and painful. My leg started burning; I don’t know what actually happened to it. Consequently, I had trouble concentrating for the rest of the day, although I ignored it as much as I could.

We went to a swamp-like area – dark, cool, and beautiful. We heard several birds, including a Carolina Wren, a Barred Owl, and Summer Tanager. A small pool was still and calm until, suddenly, we saw movement. The small animal swam slowly, and we speculated about its identification. Could it really be…? Then, it slapped its flat tail against the water. Yes, it was. A beaver.

Next, we wound our way down several country lanes. We got a close look at a Loggerhead Shrike. This time, I was able to see its thick bill and black back. Also, several Purple Martins were flying overhead. I didn’t notice anything really distinguishing about them, except that they were fairly small and that they were black. Yes, I know, very helpful.

On the way home, we stopped to look at bluebirds and cowbirds. Later that evening, we saw a Chipping Sparrow, and Bolt explained to us the difficulty in recognizing the many different types of sparrows.

The day was beautiful. I wanted to stay out all night. I think that might be one of the reasons why I like birding – it provides a legitimate excuse for being outside rather than being inside doing homework.

Hooked

2005-04-13T18:30:00.000-05:00

I’ve come to know a birder. Through reading his reports, I’ve been introduced to a world that I didn’t know existed. Now, I want to be a part of that world.

Over the past few days I’ve been paying closer attention to birds than I ever have before. Yesterday, Bolt asked if I wanted to go birding on campus with him.

We began the day in front of Longview Hall. Bolt lent me his pair of binoculars and told me a few of the basics of birding.

I don’t know how many birds Bolt usually sees when he goes birding, but it certainly seemed like we saw a lot this time.

The first birds we saw were Mourning Doves. I’ve seen these before, although I didn’t know that they were doves. Overhead, we saw Chimney Swifts. They’re big and black. Bolt says that they are often referred to as “cigars with wings” because they have such thin bodies. They look somewhat like Swallows.

Next, Bolt directed my attention to a tree. I took a while getting my binoculars on the bird, but when I did, I saw a pretty little thing with a red head. It’s called a Red-bellied Woodpecker, although its belly really isn’t red. There were plenty of Blue Jays all around. They have harsh sounding calls and flop around clumsily in the air.

I think I knew I was hooked as soon as Bolt pointed to a bright yellow bird high up in a tree: a Goldfinch, he said. I’ve seen Cardinals and Blue Jays, of course, but beyond those, I’ve thought of birds as drab creatures. The Goldfinch proved me wrong. Later on, we saw a House Finch. This type was brownish with a red head. I liked it nearly as much as the Goldfinch.

We saw a Kingbird and a Loggerhead Shrike, and Bolt informed me of the shrike’s violent habits. Both birds were black and white. Like colored birds, this was new for me.

A Red-winged Blackbird was sitting high in a tree. I saw a red spot on its wing, but Bolt said that the yellow line under the red spot was all that was visible. I don’t know what that makes the red spot I saw then…

Starlings, Mockingbirds, Robins, and Cardinals were common. They gave me the feeling that at least I knew something, even if it was only the smallest bit.

We heard a squeaky call. The bird would repeat the call once and then switch to a new one. Bolt said it sounded like a Brown Thrasher, but the sound was coming from high in the tree. We eventually found the bird, and it was indeed a thrasher. Bolt said that he had never seen one that high before.

I would have enjoyed staying out all day, but I had class at 9:30. On the way back, we saw House Sparrows and a Barn Swallow.