Going on bird walks is one of my favorite spring hobbies. Central Park in New York City is a surprisingly great birding location during migration, and I also have several fruitful environments close to my home, including a large Frederick Law Olmstead park in my suburban town. But despite my interest, I’ve never been a very good birder — I’m dependent on better eyes than mine to find the birds, better ears to hear their songs, and more knowledgeable folks to identify them by their field marks, behavior, habitat, etc. But this year I’m on my own! I’m also adjusting to a different pace of birding — confined to the local park and my own backyard, I encounter fewer birds, so each one seems even more valuable and interesting. Any competent birders who are reading this should stop now, as my ignorance and naivete are likely to annoy you!
I have never developed the discernment necessary to appreciate the myriad so-called LBJs (little brown jobs), but early in migration, when there’s not a lot to see, I find that even I can enjoy them. Until last week, for instance, I had always overlooked song sparrows — but what a shame, for they are delightful! Upon close examination, you see they’re not just streaky brown birds but very pretty little creatures, with stripey breasts and russet-colored backs and wings. And what endearing behaviors — I often caught them hopping daintily along the canal which flows through the park, or perched conspicuously on bare branch proudly singing their little hearts out.
Even common grackles can command your attention when there’s little else going on. Although they annoy me at my feeders, aggressively shouldering aside more ‘desirable’ birds, I do enjoy the iridescent plumage on their heads. But I’d never noticed how their tails appear to be oriented vertically in flight, almost like a dorsal fin. I’ve now also observed their clear preference for the park’s darkest, thickest evergreens, from which issue their constant harsh, noisy cries. I also enjoyed watching one taking an exuberant bath in the canal on a very cold morning. What fortitude!
I was surprised to observe something new about the ubiquitous mourning dove. Have you ever noticed how they sit as still as stones in trees? They often choose trees with gray bark to match their plumage, so they are perfectly camouflaged! Study the trees with a careful eye, and suddenly a docile, motionless bird might leap into focus, almost with a shock, as you have been unaware of the presence of a living creature. These slow-flying birds must be favorite prey of raptors, so have learned how to stay hidden.
I’ve also enjoyed watching the behaviors of paired birds, which I might not have noticed in the past. Cardinal couples check in with each other constantly, trading little ‘chip’ calls, as if conversing. Song sparrows forage in obvious pairs, remaining close to one another as they move along the stream bank. I also enjoy watching a pair of mallards sailing lazily along side by side, knowing that they’ll soon be trailed by a flotilla of ducklings. And how do the paired mourning doves execute their perfectly synchronized swerves and veers over my head?
Maybe my identifications skills will improve too, now that I’m on my own. Birding with a knowledgeable guide, I had never committed to memory the difference between a golden-crowned kinglet (yellow and black stripes on head) and a ruby-crowned one (no stripes); nor the russet cap which distinguishes the palm from the pine warbler. My ancient brain is no longer very fertile soil for information like this to germinate, but maybe just a bit will take root!
Meanwhile I’m grateful for a hobby which is still accessible when nearly everything else is shuttered. Before mid-March, if you got a little bored or antsy, you could go shopping or have a meal out, or meet friends for a meal. Now none of those amusements are available, so I turn gratefully to the birds.
Linnetontheleaf 
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