What is it about wild birds that I love so very much? Is it the way a bird comes close enough that I can observe the color of its feathers, the shape of its beak, the form of its feet? Does it have anything to do with that brief moment when I feel like perhaps I am a magical being of the woods, connecting on a supernatural level with a beautiful creature of the wild, only to be grounded back in reality as it takes flight, scared of this stranger that has gotten too close for comfort? Maybe it has something to do with birds’ songs, the variety offered not just moment-to-moment, but also bird-to-bird, family-to-family.
Or could it be the wonder of a bird building its nest? The way it works tirelessly, back-and-forth and back-and forth. Or the way its gathering efforts include both natural and man-made elements of its environment: twigs, leaves, grass, and shoelaces.
Maybe I love how I see them just about anywhere I go, reassurance that no matter the state of the world, the birds continue on.
Perhaps it’s the delight I feel upon witnessing the ordinary silhouette of a telephone line transformed by the flock that knows nothing about social distancing. And then how the breath of my lungs is swept away by the members of the same giant flock all taking flight at the same instant, followed by a swift change in direction. It’s like watching the movement of an artist’s paint brush streaming and shifting across the sky.
Or how about flying? FLYING!? Like most people, I am entranced by a bird’s ability to move in a way that I can only dream about.
I love the little birds, the way they bop around, tweeting a lovely random and peppy tune. I love watching them in erratic flight, resting their wings for a moment, allowing gravity to pull them towards the earth for just a second before they resume flapping furiously, climbing back up to the clouds.
I love the big predator birds that hunt for their prey, waiting patiently from above, focusing so intently on the ground below. I love their majestic way of soaring, circling, gliding on the air’s invisible current.
And, oh, sandhill cranes, how they make my heart soar! I am delighted by the rippling waves of cooing that cause me to squint toward the heavens, scanning the sky until I find them: dozens, sometimes hundreds or even thousands of them. I love how my outdoor January walks carry phantom crane calls, wishful thinking perhaps, and almost always resulting in daydreams of Mexican beaches in winter.
Which do I love more, the storybook-worthy “hoo-hoo hooing” of the great horned owl or the challenge of following that sound in an effort to find where it sits, near the top branches of the old oak tree?
Do I love the cardinals and how they return to our backyard bird feeder day after day or how my very basic knowledge of male vs. female identification allows me to be a bird expert in the eyes of my children?
And of course Mr. and Mr. Goose bring me endless joy! Am I the only person living in the midwest who sees geese as so much more than a nuisance? I love their honking V that flies across an autumn sky and the way they saunter slowly across a busy street, creating their own personal crosswalk for their entire extended family. (Why did the goose cross the road? To reveal some insight into a motorist’s current emotional state. Ha!)
I wonder if I just love that wild birds simply give me something to notice, something to delight in, something to share with other bird nerds. They help me tune into the present moment. And seeing as no two moments of bird watching are ever the same, they serve as a lovely metaphor for just about everything else I may experience in this ever-changing and oh-so-precious life I get to live.