By Dan Larkin
With more time to listen than usual, I recommend seeking out a little courtyard concert in the form of bird watching.
And yes, “bird watching” is fine. Watching is what I am doing mostly. I won’t put on airs about calling it “birding,” a term that signals looking at birds is a multi-sensory experience, about learning, and listening and studying. Indeed, “to bird” is a verb. Call it what you will. I bird. You bird. Don’t worry.
What humbles and stupefies me about birding is the feeling: how was I, for so long, oblivious to all that was around me? How was I missing the six hawks on light poles on my commute? Who in God’s name is leaving out all this crumby bread on the street corner for the sparrows? There’s a freaking ovenbird? What the heck is that?
Here’s why now’s a good time to try birding.
1. Spring is a prime migratory bird season on the Atlantic flyway, a once-a-year a chance to see colorful warblers and migrant species. It’s also mating season meaning male birds will be donning their spring best brightest plumage
2. Maybe you’re with your kids more than usual and you need some more activities. I particularly enjoy bird bingo.
3. I don’t like hearing about how to relax from people, so I’m sorry, but birding is relaxing because it requires sensory awareness, not scaring off things near you, walking quietly and thinking about distinguishing between the slightly different calls emanating from the trees. Birding can be gear-less, passive, and stationery, or the opposite. You pick.
4. Overall, things are quieter than usual by you, so a rarely seen urban woodpecker jackhammers a telephone pole across the street from COVID-delayed condo construction.
5. You want to hit 10,000 steps, not run, and not be near other people (although birding does attract curious onlookers).
6. You want to have something to write about in your new COVID journal, and birds are poetic little guys.
7. You find yourself awake to hear the birds chirping as they get up, telling you, “It’s 3:30 a.m., just stay up at this point.”
8. You want to become a snob at something, and baking bread is already taken!
A few years ago, I saw a cadre of people birding in Central Park and they were real fleecy old farts. Ridiculous. They wore clothes in colors I had never seen. They carried so much gear requiring ways to affix the gear to their chests and backs. One of them had a scope that looked more suited for black holes than birds. The whole thing was a turn off. Who am I to judge now, though? I’ve been caught waving hello to sparrows.
Last week, I watched an American robin look and listen for a worm. Sitting on a park bench, I was on the phone with someone who had a lot of nothing to say. I couldn’t hang up, that would be rude, but I needed a distraction. For what felt like an hour one late afternoon, I watched a robin turning its head, looking and listening to worm movement on the ground. I crossed one leg, then the other, nodding as if the person on the other line could see me. The bird finally slurped up a long worm and immediately flew straight up to the near decent branch. With its back to me, it stood motionless ready for twilight, for sleep. That robin’s simple sense of accomplishment speaks to me, soothing the din of calls for superhuman productivity.
While birding can be seen as a way to escape, it also offers community in the form of walks, Facebook groups, and activities. Community and escape are essential in these surreal times. However, for people of color, being outside and curious with binoculars has dangerous risks associated with it. After May’s Central Park bird watching incident, groups organized what will be an annual Black Birders Week and there has been a necessary call to make outdoor spaces and activities more inclusive. According to Black Birders Week co-organizer Kassandra Ford, online birding communities need to listen to the experiences of Black birders. Now is a good time to be outside and learning and listening, to identify and discuss the things that have been around us for so long.
Whether you bring lovely intentionality, or a desire to space out, all you need is a window. The birds are already there.
Dan Larkins lives in Freehold.
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Before the solitude ends, try birding | Opinion - NJ.com
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