Tag Archives: Cliff Swallow

Birding 101

Posted by dkrashb on

Birds reveal themselves to me slowly.  I must see them many times before I understand who they are, what they look like, what interests them, what they sound like, and I can recognize them like an old friend.

When I hear a bubbling American Goldfinch flying by behind me, I smile to myself, envisioning it’s scooping flight pattern, called “zooming” in hang gliding school.  How the goldfinch must love the zip of the dive followed by the lift, stalling and diving again and again, riding its invisible roller coaster and able to stay airborne because, unlike a hang glider, it can flap.

When I see a Great Blue Heron gliding in for a landing at the wetland, I know that the theory that dinosaurs did not all become extinct but some evolved into birds is true.  If ever there was a remnant of a pterodactyl, surely it’s the great blue heron with its crooked neck gliding awkwardly on giant wings, miraculously able to perch high in a tree on it’s fragile, stilted legs.

And now, I am pursued by brilliant Indigo Buntings.  They perch and sing their songs to me, over and over, determined that I will recognize the sound of their voice.  At long last I have learned to know them by their song.  I can smile and look and see a tiny silhouette off in a distant tree top, point, and say, “There is an Indigo Bunting.”  It seems like magic to those who have not listened to the bunting’s song 3x a day for months.  It seems like magic to me, even though I have.

No matter how familiar a few birds have become to me, there is always another bird to meet.  My latest friends are fly catchers.  The Blue-Gray Gnatcatcher is easy to recognize.  But the Eastern Phoebe and the Eastern Wood Pewee still manage to confuse me even though I thought I knew what a Phoebe looked like for many years now.  My human friends play the same trick on me–I often recognize them only to discover I’m saying hello to a complete stranger.  At least the Phoebe tells me its name over and over again in its distinct call of “Fee – bee.”

These are things I like to share with others.  I love to see people get excited about seeing a bird for the first time that they’ve walked by without notice for decades.  I love to see someone realize that a bird they thought they knew looks completely different up close through binoculars.

For this reason, I have started leading beginning bird walks for the Audubon Society.  I am not the best birder in the world–there are many species I would be hard pressed to even guess at.  But, having struggled long and hard to learn what I do know, I know what’s helped me learn it.  Maybe that’s why people say “those who can’t do, teach”?

Regardless, I’m happy to share smiles, even if it’s over a robin.

Broken Heart Birdsongs

Posted by dkrashb on

When Tisen and I go to the park, the Cliff Swallows buzz over our heads.  I took my binocs over with me one morning to figure out what they were.  They gave me quite a run for my money making me chase them with my lenses, getting just enough of a glimpse of their details to know for sure what category to place them in, what name to give them, what song to expect from them.

There is something about swallows diving through the air that makes me want to forget all about what kind of bird they are and simply join them in the freedom of flight.  The level of emotion I feel watching them is inexplicable except maybe, at an unconscious level, they connect me to my mother.

It was, after all, my mother who first introduced me to the wonder of birds.  Although the most exotic bird I remember my mother identifying was the American Goldfinch, her fascination with them was contagious.  My mother wasn’t really about identifying them or photographing them or getting up close to them.  She was all about birdness in its purest form.

She just felt joy when she saw a bird.  Any bird.  As long as it wasn’t in a cage.

Perhaps that’s what the swallows remind me of.  Because I was unsure of what name went with them, for weeks I watched them swoop and dive with the kind of delight my mother would have taken in seeing them.

I am reminded of a reoccurring dream I used to have as a child.  In it, I was running down the street I grew up on.  Running as fast as the wind.  Then, my steps would grow longer and I would soar through the air further and further between foot falls.  The feeling of flying between foot steps was so profound that when I woke up, I could feel the remnants of the dream physically in my stomach.  I so loved that feeling.

I wonder if my mother used to dream about flying?

There are times when her absence is still so painful I cannot bear to think of her.  Even though it’s been 13 years since her death, I so wish I could take her to see the swallows across the street.  I so wish I could point out the Eastern Towhee calling from the tree tops.  I so wish she could see the Eastern Bluebirds nesting in the bird house.  As if showing her birds might somehow make up for all the times I broke her heart.  As if a birdsong might heal the remnants of the hurt.

In lieu of sharing these birds with her, I share them with you.  Unfortunately, the swallows are too quick in flight for me to photograph.  But, having discovered their nests clinging to the Western side of the Market Street bridge, I can capture them there.  Frozen in a frame–I hope it’s not too much like a cage.

Related articles