My first memory of anyone taking an interest in birds was Ingrid observing the tuis in the flax outside the kitchen window at our Brownville Crescent house, when I was a teenager. But there must have been earlier instances, because paying attention to birds just seemed like a reasonable thing for any person to do. Birds are everywhere, and if you're walking around with your eyes open, you're going to notice them. I don't know when birdwatching turned into a cliche about aging. Is that an American thing? People of a certain age reading binocular reviews and downloading the Merlin app to keep track of their life lists? (Guilty as charged). I don't relish being a cliche, but I guess somethings are unavoidable.
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| Michael checking out a cormorant in the middle of the pond. It's that little black dot you can just see if you squint, there, on the edge of the reflection of the trailer. The pond is usually the domain of the geese and the cormorants tend to stick to the river. But this one was sailing around like it owned the place while the geese watched uncertainly. (A double-crested cormorant, I believe) |
Spring migrations have begun here in northeastern North America, and today our long Sunday walk went through what Michael terms "bird alley," a strip of Otsiningo Park, between the river and the highway, where bird calls compete with the sound of traffic. Brown-headed cowbirds. Black-capped chickadees. Goldfinches. Etc. We experienced some frustration because the app told us we were hearing flashes of a Rusty Blackbird, which neither of us had ever heard of before, and which we could not catch a glimpse of. Apparently they, or it, are on their way to breeding grounds in Canada, so their window of time here with us is small. Godspeed, Rusty Blackbird!
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