The House Finch has recently flown into my life and captivated me. Sometimes species, even common ones, suddenly loom large in my mind, and I find myself looking for them everywhere. First, it was the Northern Mockingbird. Currently, it is the rosy backed House Finch.

I identified my first House Finch in Virginia Beach. The Boyfriend and I, along with his roommate, were walking along the road towards home when half a dozen little brown birds buzzed past us and landed in the lower limbs of a tree overhead, making a racket. I first assumed that they were normal House Sparrows, but their excited cheeping wasn’t quite right. Peering between the branches, we saw something else that would not fit with a House Sparrow identification – a flash of red. To me, male House Finches look like they took a brief bath in a bucket of red paint, which covers their head, breast, and a spot on their back.

Of course, I didn’t have my camera with me, but I did have it slung over my shoulder the next time I spotted a pair. Lively and always moving, I was able to snap a photo of the two, but only from far away. Still, I could at least watch the pair, cementing in my mind the markers that would point to my friends the House Finches. The summer is only beginning, and my goal is to finally take a solid picture!

Spring and early summer are undoubtedly my favorite time of year. In my last post I marveled at the ducklings gracing the waters of Washington. Last night I saw more evidence of the new generation – a nest of House Finch eggs. Spending the night in Annapolis, my hostess showed me the little eggs in a hanging pot of petunias right off her front porch. Trying to keep my distance, I spotted the brown female eying us warily from the perch atop her nest. Why she would choose to lay her eggs in the immediate vicinity of us humans is confusing, but so far so good. As I watched her she did fly off, but returned to her nest later. If only I could have stayed long enough to see the baby birds hatch!

Today is my last day in Washington, DC. Tomorrow summer begins for me, and so my search for my new favorites, the House Finches, continues!

I had been waiting for them. For weeks every time I was near the Potomoc  River or the Reflecting Pool in the National Mall, I let my eyes glide over the gentle waters near the shore to see if they had arrived yet. Still, until May I hadn’t seen a feathered sign of them.

My first memories of Washington, DC are from a trip my family took in the spring of my Junior year of high school, back in 2007. We toured the monuments, went to museums, and enjoyed the sun and warmth that had not yet reached the cold north of Maine. Washington was bursting with spring, flowers and t-shirts out everywhere. I remember cherry blossoms, but not the epic blooms that I experienced for a brief four days this year. And I remember the baby ducks.

Swimming energetically in the shallow water of the Reflecting Pool, the tiny Mallards paid little attention to the War War II or Lincoln Memorial bookending their small home, yet they were literally swimming in the shadow of the great Washington Monument. My little sister and brother and I watched them for hours, while my parents tried to move us on to other important tourist spots.

So this year, when I had the luxury of the Reflecting Pool only a metro ride away, I kept my eyes open for the little guys. A cold spring has delayed flowers, migratory birds, and also the baby ducks. April passed completely without my spotting even one duckling, and I was afraid I  had somehow missed them. May 1^st arrived, and with it my grandmother, who was visiting for two days.  

We had much sight seeing planned, and started May 2^nd with an early boat ride on the Potomoc. Very beautiful of course, with the usual Cormorants and Canadian Geese swimming near us. As we pulled up to the Georgetown Waterfront once more, I saw a dozen small  brown shapes bobbing near the concrete shore. As we pulled closer, I noticed a female Mallard. All at once it hit me, THEY WERE HERE!!

I practically fell out of the boat straining to get a better look at them, and tapped my foot impatiently as it took us forever to dock and jump off. I didn’t need to worry, they had just swum farther down the shore where the concrete gave way to grass, and stone steps led straight down to the water. There they were! Barely a week old and fuzzy.

The reflecting pool boasted even more. We toured the Lincoln Memorial, the Korean War Memorial, and then my grandmother let me speed us to the reflecting pool so I could find more ducklings.

“Haven’t you seen ducks before?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

Yes, but these are baby ducks. Sure, Mallards are great in their own right, but they are infinitely cuter when they are brown and yellow and fluffy. Not so with all birds. We’ve all seen pictures of tiny babies that look like they’re naked, skin and bones and from an alien species. Mallard ducklings are just plain cute.

I was in for more than just Mallard offspring. As we trailed down the side of the Reflecting Pool – we weren’t the only ones ooh-ing and aah-ing over the babies – we caught site of a pair of Canadian geese in the center of the water, trailing their own set of a dozen young! Though they were farther away than the small Mallards, their ducklings were a brighter yellow and already much larger.

Eventually, I had to leave them. I’m not sure why the Reflecting Pool is so popular for the Mallards and the Geese, given that there are many ponds and waterways not-so-close to human habitation nearby, but they are definitely part of my DC spring!

Check out my guest post on 10000birds.com at:

http://10000birds.com/birding-in-the-blossoms.htm

It was a peaceful afternoon. My mother and I pedaled leisurely down the winding dirt road leading to Kennebago Lake as the trees waved slightly in the summer breeze, the sun began its afternoon descent, and the warm air swirled around us. I may have had my camera in my bag, and my mother may have had a pair of binoculars around her neck, but even I’ll admit we had been lulled into complacency by the power of a summer day in July.

I was pedaling behind – despite being 32 years younger than my mom she insists on being perpetually in better shape than I am – my eyes open, then closed for a moment, open, then closed again, when suddenly there was an explosion of air and sound and a brown streak shot out of nowhere and nearly collided with her in the middle of the dirt road. Literally seeming to bounce off her back seat, we both watched the brown blob sidle to the side of the road as we slammed on our breaks and ground to a halt.

It as a ruffed grouse! With a brown back and a speckled black and white belly, the grouse seemed unharmed, continuing to make noise as it walked its way back into the woods. The sound we had heard was the rapid beating of its wings, a thunderous noise for so little a creature.

“What the heck was that?” I hissed, trying not to spook the bird.

“I don’t know!” she exclaimed, watching the grouse, “It just literally flew into me!”

If the grouse was trying to be stealthy, it was doing the worst possible job. We easily followed its path through the brush on the edge of the road and then deeper into the woods, making noise and rustling all the way. But that wasn’t the only noise I heard.

On the other side of the road – from the direction the grouse had come – were smaller rustling noises, little peeping sounds.

“Mom,” I whispered, gesturing behind her. She turned, and we both caught sight of them simultaneously. In the grass, underneath the pines, were grouse chicks. The mother grouse hadn’t become a kamikaze bird, randomly throwing herself at the tires of any random rider, we had spooked her and she was trying to lure us away from her babies! Too bad they didn’t quite get the message, and were anxiously looking for her.

We froze. I had so rarely seen young animals in the wild, let alone baby birds, and this family was right in front of me! I wanted so badly for the mother to see that we were in fact no danger, and for her to return to her young. I scarcely breathed.

After a few moments, perhaps sensing our desire to be nonthreatening, the adult grouse beat her wings a few times to quickly retreat to her babies, disappearing with them into the woods. I let curiosity get the best of me, and letting my bike fall to the ground tried to go in after them. After a few glimpses however, they had vanished, protected by the vegetation and their excellent camouflage.

It was birding while biking that had given us the unique opportunity to see the grouse family. If we had been in a car, the grouse may not have chosen to go after such a large beast, or worse, we could have killed her. On foot, it’s not likely our presence would have prompted her to go after us in the first place. Though no one would bird bike with the sole intent of flushing out birds, biking gives the birder the unique opportunity to cover large distances, listen for bird calls, and hop off and dive off the road after an avian sighting of one of our feathery friends.

We pedaled on, stopping at a clearing to see the lake at sunset. It’s these thoughts that make me so excited when spring finally arrives, when summer is right around the corner!

My favorite bird is the Common Loon. I grew up spending my summers on a lake in northern Maine, and the loon is the symbol, the pride, the favorite of the local lakes and local people. Their calls have been the soundtrack to my childhood, and their seemingly melancholy wails echoed against the mountains. Knowing their calls and their actual  habitat, when directors use them to set a lonely scene in say, a desert, its hard not to burst out laughing or roll my eyes. Not exactly what the movie was intending!

Still, despite spending summers with loons since I was four, I didn’t realize until this spring that I was actually seeing only one part of their lives, just like I only spent part of mine on the lake. Virginia Beach helped me fill in the gap.

Kennegago Lake has anywhere from ten to fifteen loons, depending on the year. I don’t do the exact loon counts that are taken annually, but I pay attention to the big clumps of the birds when they begin to swim together at the end of August.  During the rest of the summer, they stretch themselves over the five mile lake, calling to each other frequently.

To say they are used to humans is an understatement. My father, a Maine flyfishing guide during the summer months, likes to tell the story of a certain overzealous loon that gave a fisherman more than he bargained for. Picture a calm, serene evening. The sun setting over the mountain, low chatter floating over the water from the dozen fishing boats, their occupants gently casting to the rising fish. A loon gliding past perfects the kodak moment.

 Only loons are not stupid. They have learned that where there are fishermen and women, there are (hopefully) fish ripe for the taking. It’s not uncommon for a loon to dive after a hooked fish, breaking off the line and swallowing the fish whole before escaping down into the depths. This loon, this evening, was watching our trusty fisherman, waiting for him to have a bit of luck. Suddenly, with a splash a fish hit the fly, pulling the sharp metal and bunch of feathers down to the bottom. The loon dove too. The fisherman furiously reeled in his line, and was pulling the fish out of the water when, with another large splash, the loon broke the surgace and landed right in the fisherman’s boat! Instead of his trophy trout, the fisherman now had a large and angry loon to contend with. Loons are big.  I never did hear how he got the bird back in the water.

My favorite part of sharing the lake with the loons are their chicks. In the last few years, a pair of chicks has hatched directly across the lake from where our cabin sits. Slipping into a kayak,  I would cross the half mile to the other side and follow the adult loons and their fuzzy gray young. Though loons are comfortable with humans, they are not comfortable with anything approaching their babies, so I kept my distance. Still, I’ve learned that very young loon chicks sound exactly like kittens. Who would have thought.

I had watched loons as adults, I had seen them as chicks, but I had never seen them in between. Loons spend their first few years along the coast, but I my experience with them was exclusively on lakes in Maine. Virginia Beach quickly solved that problem!

The Virginia Beach and Norfolk areas must have hundreds of loons. I have seen them  every weekend since February, in juvenile and non-breeding patterns. The first time I spotted one, I didn’t even recognize it as a loon. Walking along the beach with Brian, I recognized the shape, but not the  brownish-grayish color of the juvenile loon. It took a few good photos and The Sibley Field Guide to Birds for me to realize I was seeing the same species that practically symbolized my summers.

Since then, I have seen at least a dozen more. Brunch near the water? Loon. Walking along the fishing piers? Four loons. Sunning on the beach? Loon. I couldn’t be more thrilled to discover my childhood companians again in my young adulthood! Now when I visit Maine again in the summer, I will see the loons with a more complete understanding of their entire lives, not just the warm weather snapshot. Who knows, maybe a Virginia Beach loon will turn up on my Maine lakeshores!

It seemed like the perfect partnership, birds and blossoms. The Boyfriend had volunteered to take me to the Norfolk Botanical gardens for a Saturday afternoon, and I eagerly took him up on it. The Botanical Gardens are curiously situated right next to the Norfolk Airport, but are also right next to a large body of water where you can take boat rides run by the Gardens. When we had visited the summer before we had seen a large Bald Eagle sitting among the trees at the water’s edge. The only Bald Eagle I have seen yet this year was from the windows of a fast-moving train, so I was hoping we could spot the Eagle again.

We may not have seen the Eagle, but we saw creatures not only from the plant world, but also the reptile, mammalian, fish, and amphibious families! The magnolia, cherry, and chamellia trees were in full bloom, showering the ground with yellow, pink, white, and red flowers. One walk was completely lined with tall trees sporting white blossoms. And the smell! Every now and again we would walk into a draft of a flower’s perfume and just close our eyes and sigh. Robins were everywhere, and barely ten minutes after entering the park we both heard and spotted a Chickadee, almost hanging beneath the branches of a red Camellia tree. Definitely not what I was expecting to see on a warm day in Virginia!

Farther into the park, we climbed a wooden watch tower overlooking the deep green canals that connect the different waterways and carry the visitors who choose to embark on the brief boat tour. Sunning themelves under a cherry tree we saw not one, not two, but almost a dozen turtles glistening against the shore! They were completely undisturbed by any of the people trooping around them, keeping their noses turned up to the sun.

The Botanical Gardens boast both wide open quads of grass, but also paths that wind through the woods, little placards in front of the different species of trees or flowering plants along the way. Bright pink azaleas were in bloom, along with hundreds and hundreds of yellow daffodils. In the open areas we had seen many birds, but they were mostly Robins hopping along the grass or Laughing Gulls circling far overhead. It was off into the wooded paths that we really began to see wildlife.

First was a bird I didn’t recognize. Sure, that’s not saying a whole lot at the moment, but a bird I don’t recognize means the possibility of a new life bird, a brand new check mark in my Sibley Field Guide to Birds, and I’m always instantly focused and excited. However, it wasn’t me who can take any credit for the identification, it is all thanks to Brian.

I heard the little guy before I could see him. A high-pitched whistling, almost tweeting sounds from far up in the pines above. We turned our heads, but it took us awhile to find him despite the lack of leaves on any of the trees nearby. Finally, we spotted him. To me, the bird looked like a miniature Blue Jay, only without the same vibrant blue.

Too high to really take a good picture, he flitted this way and that, but never came down farther. My mother, far from an amatuer birder, uses the psshhh-pshhh-psshhhhhhh method of attempting to call birds closer. I have no idea why it works, since it doesn’t sound like any bird call I’ve ever heard, but it never fails to bring a few curious birds down  a branch or two, even if they quickly lose interest and flap away. Unfortunately, my little blue bird was having none of it.

I am embarrased to say, I also quickly lost interest. Spotting another Chickadee bouncing around a bush close to the ground, I strode away, leaving behind a very intent Brian. He had begun whistling, exactly mimicking the song of the bird overhead. I let him at it, trying to photograph the Chickadee instead.

After a few minutes, Brian’s voice carried to me where I had wandered away, “Erika,” he hissed, “Erika come here.”

I turned but did not approach, and he said even more urgently, “Erika quick.”

Brian is not prone to exageration, and when he says quick he means it! I hightailed it over there, taking care to avoid crunching too loudly on the dry leaves and pinecones littering the ground. He pointed and I looked up – the little bird! Continuing to whistle, Brian would first mimic the song, and then the bird would sing after him, descending little by little until he was barely twenty feet above us.

And then, he seemed to get angry. Completely halting his beautiful song, the bird began to scold us, his call now a harsh scratchy sound.  He desperately flapped his wings at us, almost as if he was trying to take off but remained rooted on his branch. Either assuming Brian was a competitor, or warning Brian-the-Bird that there were humans in close proximity, he beat his wings from multiple perches before flying off. I have the whole spectacle recorded.

After he disappeared, we both shrugged and continued. I had captured some okay-quality photos, in addition to the video, so we hoped we could identify the bird when we returned to the house and the bird book. Quick searches on our Android phones had yielded many possible matches,  but none were correct. We took the path farther into the woods, where it met a large pond, protected from the wind and still. Two Great Blue Herons were seated in trees high above the water, and spreading their giant wings they slowly glided away as we approached. Frogs blurped at us from along the water’s edge. In the sunlight, Brian spied some large mouth bass and talapia swimming very close to the shore, enjoying the warmer water the shallows afforded.

And then we heard it again, the high song of the little blue bird. Whirling around, Brian started whistling, matching the call note for note. This time, the bird, the same one or a different individual we’ll never know, did not start scolding us, but came ever closer until with a flap and a swoop crossed the path and landed on the slim branch of a tree near the water, less than a dozen feet away! There he perched, unmoving, where we could get a good look at him. In addition to his blue back, his stomach was white with a blush of red under the wing, his crest and black eyes and feet giving him a distinctive look. With the approach of another group of people he flew off, but until we left the forrest he would return each and every one of Brian’s calls.

My boyfriend, bird-caller extrordinaire! I’ve never been so jealous of someone who can really whistle in my whole life. If I thought his Cardinal imitation was impressive, it was nothing compared to this! Just by listening closely he had given me the opportunity to add another bird to my life list. Definitely a skill that belongs on all future resumes. Guys, don’t be afraid to add bird calls to your Match.com profiles too, it’s an attractive quality!

Once again, it was our stomachs and the ever increasing growls of hunger that told us it was time to leave. Someday we are going to learn to bring snacks. Approaching the exit, we took a quick detour to the gift shop to look up our friend in one of their bird books. Brian found him first, in a backyard bird pamphlet. Drum roll please… a Tufted Titmouse! Once again, not the rarest bird in the world, and a species I have certainly encountered before, but in my newly awakened birding state, this was the first time I (via Brian) had correctly identified a Tufted Titmouse.

Two overarching lessons from my afternoon: First, birding in a botanical garden is absolutely worth it. Between the flowers, birdsongs, and the birds themselves, the senses really do come alive. Second, I have added a third rule to my list of essential birding rules. #3: Whenever possible, bring Brian along!!  

Easter weekend couldn’t come fast enough. After an entire week of rain and cold temperatures, the weather finally called for warmth and sun. The Boyfriend’s roommate was having his whole family visit for the holidays, which was great – if I couldn’t be with my own family for Easter, at least someone’s family would be there! Amid the ruckus however, caused by any extended family stay, The Boyfriend and I wheeled bicycles out of the garage and slipped away for the afternoon.

Pedaling the five miles to First Landing State Park (points for avoiding the car!), we began our nearly four hour excursion, and my first trip identifying over ten bird species in one day! This may not be a feat for many birders, especially one couple I read about on a birding website who have already identified 315 bird species - this year. 10 birds for me was amazing, and we saw them at every stage of our mini-trip.

 I followed Brian as we maneuvered through neighborhoods, around cars, and across one incredibly busy bridge. Just within the nearby neighborhoods I spotted a pair of cardinals, a blue jay, robins, and many mockingbirds, all on my awesome wheels (borrowed from Brian’s other roommate. I was able to borrow the bike on strict instructions not to run into anything. Oh if only I had that kind of control. Looking up to find birds in the trees above doesn’t exactly keep my eyes on the road either!).  Species one, two, three, and four,  all within the first half hour. Sure, they were four species that I see nearly every day I spend in Virginia Beach, but the thrill of correct identification remains!

On our way, we pulled over at a seafood place right on the water. Not bothering to go in, we rolled down to the pier, where boaters can pull up and park instead of driving their cars or trucks. In case you were wondering, it is much more fun to casually pull up to a eatery via water. Covering the dock was a half dozen Brown Pelicans, ruffling their feathers and preening in the sun. I have a love affair with Pelicans, and would have happily have stayed their snapping the exact same photo of the birds if The Boyfriend hadn’t insisted on moving us along. Five.

Entering the park, we dodged dog walkers, joggers, and other bicylists until we pulled up to the visitor’s center. After I jumped not-so-gracefully to the ground, Brian locked my bike with his and threaded the helmets through my backpack straps so they swung as we walked. It is a beautiful park, with a myriad of trails threading their way through the woods and around cyprus swams, rooty cyprus knees jutting up out of the dark water. We were on the main trail, which was quite busy on a warm Saturday, but still we found ourselves suddenly feeling rural. When we were alone on the trail it was completely quiet, though the roads were only a few miles away through the trees.

In one such break between the other walkers/ joggers, a pair of black and white woodpeckers flew across the path, landing in large pine trees to our right. We heard them thwack briefly as I tried desperately to focus my camera quick enough to catch some defining features. Though we got a good look at them, the camera had no such luck, and they had flown again before allowing themselves to be captured on film. Still, it was a good start to our walk!

 I always insist we take the Kingfisher Trail. Not only is it named after one of my favorite birds, the Kingfisher trail cuts out of the wood and brings its travelors right next to the ocean, trading the dirt and soil of the forest floor for white sand. Walking towards the shore, we quieted suddenly to locate a high pitched cheep coming from the trees around us. Squinting, we finally made out a small Yellow-Rumped Warbler, one of the only warblers I can easily identify because it is a) yellow, so it sticks out from the brush and I can see it in the first place, and b) it has a very obvious yellow spot on its back. We crept behind it softly as it jumped from perch to perch among the saplings growing close to the trail before it decided to jet off away from us. Six.

The trees in front of us opened up, revealing the bright ocean water sparkling in the spring sun. While the forest still felt a little cool, the wind was down and the sun was out on the shore, and I unzipped my jacket, jealous of Brian’s foresight in merely donning a T-shirt that morning. The birds started coming fast and furious now. Though I couldn’t identify the piper/plover that we saw in the shore grass (merely looking at the pages and pages of the different options in my bird book is enough to send my head spinning in circles) Brian pointed to a Great Egret taking flight on the other end of the marsh.  Seven.

Arriving at  a small bridge, we could see the outline of  a large bird sitting next to its equally large nest. Getting as close as the trail would allow, we then bush-whacked to the edge of the water to get even closer. From our vantage point we identified a lone Osprey, surveying its watery kingdom below. Though I’ve seen dozens of Osprey in flight, I’ve hardly ever seen one up close in its nest, at rest. They really are majestic birds, and I felt like he was looking right at us as we approached. Eight.

He wasn’t the only one eyeing us. As we made out way back to the trail, a pack of other walkers passed by, raising their eyes at the pair of us emerging from the woods. Who knows what they assumed we had been doing, and even after Brian tried to explain we had only been getting a closer look at an Osprey one of the passers-by laughed and yelled back at us, “Don’t worry, none of us saw you go to the bathroom!” Ew. Even if that had been necessary I think we would have made it farther than thirty feet off the main path!

Despite their taunts, we were rewarded for our foray not only by the Osprey, but by two Great Blue Herons, one with its long wings beating in flight, the other tucked onto the branch of a dead marsh tree in the brackish water that connected a tiny lake with the ocean’s tides. A Snowy Egret picked among the shallow water for its prey. A Kingfisher, the namesake of the trail we were on, alighted perfectly on a bare branch, cackling away. If there’s one thing I love about a Kingfisher, it’s that I always know when one’s about! Nine. Ten. Eleven.

Feeling adventurous, we picked up a tiny trail off the main path, merely a suggestion of a route instead of the well marked thoroughway that boasted more and more walkers as the morning faded into the afternoon. Though we may have broken some park rules, and though in general it is never a good idea to stray too far off a marked path in the risk of disturbing a sensitive environment, the trail we were on had seen at least some amount of traffic, and we followed it back towards the water. Spooking a Pileated Woodpecker, it keekekeekeekeekuk-ed its away directly in front of us before swooshing off to another tree out of sight. I may be an amateur birder, but I know a Pileated when I see or hear one! Twelve.

And then, one of my favorite happenings, well, happened. In a park, on a walk, in the woods, anywhere “wild” always promises one thing: suprises. As well as you can know a place, and Brian has been to First Landing multiple times for fun and for training, there is always the latent capacity to surprise that remains. As we followed the trail, all of a sudden the trees and brush fell away and a small, completely deserted beach opened up in front of us. A plastic white chair suggested we weren’t the only ones who knew of this beach, but at the moment, it was all ours! Shucking off the rest of our warm clothes, we basked in the sunshine, watching the ducks that refused to come close enough to identify them (how many times am I going to break Rule #1, always have binoculars!) but remained entertaining as they shook their heads and dove about.

It was hard to get up to leave, but eventually our stomachs told us it was time to head back and find some food. Perhaps as some kind of a cosmic reward, a blue backed bird flitted across the path in front of us, right as it curved away from the water. With a white stomach and reddish neck, it was a striking bird, even if I did not recognize it. Snapping a photo just before it flew off, when I reached my bird book back at home we found it to be an Eastern Bluebird! Uncommon in Maine, I had never seen one before, let alone identified it! A life bird for me, rigth at the end of our walk. Bird #13 of the day.

Walking back to our bikes, I was feeling pretty good about myself. Thirteen species, identified by yours truly (and Brian of course). Maybe my amateur status would only be a passing phase, a brief beginner level before becoming the master birder like those I had witnessed on The Big Year or at the Cornell lab of Ornithology. We turned a corner, and for fifty feet or so the track led us along a canal that boaters could use to reach the open ocean. As if to confirm my suspicions about my prowess, standing atop a wooden pier-post I spotted my 14^th bird!

“Brian! Look! Look! Another kind of heron!” I quickly turned on my camera and began zooming in. I hadn’t seen a heron like this before. It was smaller than a Great Blue, but larger than the Snowy Egret, a brown color that covered its whole body.

“Erika,” Brian said, turning back.

Ignoring the tone that was probably so obvious, I began taking pictures, “Do you see it? It’s right there!”

Click Click Click.

“Erika.”

“What?” I said breathlessly, taking my eyes from my digital screen.

“Look at it again.”

I lowered my camera and complied, squinting at the bird as it stood along the water. I kept staring. It didn’t move. In fact, it hadn’t moved at all since I had first spied it. It’s not unusual for certain species, especially herons, to stand stock still, but something was wrong with this bird. I crinkled my nose, trying to figure out what the heck was wrong with the thing. Until it hit me.

It wasn’t real.

Taking a second look at my pictures confirmed it. I had just become beyond excited about a bronze statue of a heron.

“It’s there to keep other birds off the dock,” Brian said matter-of-factly, shaking his head at me.

And so, my amatuer status definitely remains! It’s not the first time I’ve been fooled by a realistic looking statue or wood carving, and I’m sure it won’t be the last! I laughed at myself and put my camera away for the rest of the walk back to our bikes, just enjoying the walk and the sunshine.

Of course, I don’t mind self-proclaiming my status as an amateur birder. If I consider myself one for the rest of my life it will not diminish how much I enjoyed an afternoon outside, like in First Landing State Park! It was my first 10+ bird day, I added the Yellow Rumped Warbler and the Eastern Bluebird to my list of identified species, and I spent the whole day in the sun! Definitely an Easter Weekend win.

At the very beginning of my birding experience, I have now found myself at work on a Monday, skimming through photos taken the weekend before and itching for Saturday to come so I can make it back to the beach or to the woods.

Living in Washington, DC during the week, I travel to Virginia Beach most weekends - an area alive with migrating and year-long feathery residents. By comparison, DC often seems positively destitute. My avian neighbors had to literally land on top of me before I realized that the birds in DC are just as entertaining and even as beautiful as the ones I was rushing out to see in the classically picturesque landscapes of coastal Virginia.

It was a cold weekend in February in the city, and spring was around the corner but had definitely not arrived. The Boyfriend had been working in DC during the week, so we decided to spend Saturday and Sunday in the city, doing some of the tourist activities that in six months of living in the capital I hadn’t managed to check off my list yet. We toured Eastern Market, tried the lobster bisque at the open air fish market on Maine Avenue and, of course, went to the Smithsonian.

After wandering around the (free!) exhibits, we headed back outside to the giant grassy quad on the National Mall. Hungry, we bought a giant soft pretzel - the kind with salt the size of large pebbles - and sat at a dark iron table to quickly snack before jumping back on the metro. The wind was whistling, but at least the sun was out.

So were the birds. Bouncing, jumping, soaring, hopping, and peeping about were a mess of European Starlings and sparrows, seeming to battle each other for crumbs left by us humans and space on the grass or in the branches of the large trees overhead. They were radiating energy, never still for more than a second or two before flitting somewhere else.

I had seen sparrows before of course, but starlings are actually pretty new to me, and I had never seen them before at such close range. They literally prove that being a common city sight and being beautiful are in no ways mutually exclusive. With black, iridescent feathers, the tips of their feathers shimmer purple, yellow, and green, with pale speckles dotting their black bodies. The pale speckles are so prominent on some individuals that their feathers look outlined in gold. Their yellow beaks further contrast with their dark forms. When the sun catches them just the right way, they really are mesmerizing, because in a flash – a turn of the head, a shuffle of the feet – and the colors disappear, leaving a regular black body behind.

While I was content merely watching the starlings and snapping photos, Brian had other ideas. Pinching off a piece of his pretzel, he lightly tossed it a few feet from where we were sitting. In an instant over two dozen starlings had us surrounded, perching on the iron railings next to our table or on the grass and dirt below, quick to catch the crumbs where they fell. There were no “Do Not Feed the Birds Signs” around, so I quieted the goody-two-shoes perpetually inside of me for the chance to see the starlings and sparrows approach us further.

Slowly, gradually, Brian threw the crumbs closer and closer until that they were practically on his boots. When the birds still showed no fear, he ripped off a larger piece of pretzel, and held it out towards the starlings perched on the railing, exactly level with his fingertips. Then, he froze.

The starlings eyed him, bounced to and fro, eyed him some more. He remained still, quieting his breathing. I scarcely breathed either, only avoiding completely holding my breath because I remembered my obnoxious habit of gulping in air after I try for only twenty seconds – it’s not exactly stealthy.

After a few moments, one of the starlings suddenly decided to go for it, and with a chirp and a flap he had plucked the crumb right from Brian’s hand and had landed safely back on the rail! Exchanging a wide eyed look of surprise, we both grinned like little kids. I think people love intimate contact with animals because for a moment we feel like we are truly part of the natural world. Even if it lasts for just a split second, reaching a comfort level with the bird that that she feels like she can pluck food from your very hand made me feel connected to the starlings and sparrows in a different way than if I had just seen them from afar. Unfortunately, it probably does the starlings little good to be so comfortable with humans, but when I was actually up close and personal with the little guys it was hard to remember some of these environmental truths. I just wanted Brian to feed another one!

Don’t think for a second that the other starlings and sparrows did not notice their compatriot’s safe return, and as Brian peeled off another part of the pretzel a tiny sparrow alighted and made off with a crumb half the size of its head. The third crumb drew two competing starlings, nearly causing Brian to drop the object of their competition! Piece after piece disappeared into the mouths of the birds, and one or two even landed in his palm for a moment as they secured the pretzel bits in their beaks. It was the first time I had seen a bird land on someone outside of the confines of a zoo or an animal park.

Eventually we ran out of pretzel, but they had also completely run out of fear, and happily hopped around our feet or even at our table until our stiff limbs finally persuaded us to move. I notice starlings everywhere I go in the city now, and right in the hedges outside of my office are clumps of little brown sparrows, keeping away from passersby by mere arms-lengths. Talk about the opportunity to see birds up close! Once I finally remembered to keep my eyes open on my way to work, I’ve seen not only starlings, sparrows, and pigeons, but bright crimson cardinals, and a pair of migrating hawks watching for rats from the bare boughs of the trees in Dupont circle.

The majority of what I see on the city sidewalks may not be life birds, but their constant proximity to people and noise make them infinitely more approachable, for better or worse, than birds in more wild settings. At the very least, their constant motion and antics keep me entertained to and from my cubicle, and that’s one way of getting from Monday to Friday!

There he is!” I shouted, swinging my camera lens to my left but just missing him.

“Where?”  Brian asked, shielding his eyes from the sun’s rays.

“He just dove again,” I replied angrily, scanning the horizon again.

We were on a chilly Virginia beach, not the Virginia Beach, but a few miles south, along Chicks Beach near the Chesapeake bridge. It was a sunny and windy afternoon in early March, and we shared the sandy shore primarily with dog walkers and their hairy charges. We weren’t entirely alone on the beach, as a small group of spritely sand pipers bounced at the edge of the waves, seemingly unconcerned with the approach of either the two of us or the hounds.

But we had our sights strained on the edge of the water, where a diving duck was fishing in the surf ten or twelve feet from the shore. We were following his path along the beach, waiting for him to pop up and trying to snap a shot of him before he disappeared again. This duck did not merely slip under the water after his prey, but really seemed to earn the verb dive as he propelled himself under the wave, one millisecond before I could get my camera to focus.

“Come on,” I sighed in frustration as he dove again.

We had identified a black head, with long feathers that almost looked like a rocker’s Mohawk. We had also confirmed a long, gray-black body, and a dark orange beak, but that was about it. Still, it was enough for me to know that I had never seen a bird like him before.

I am an amateur birder. I have only recently bought myself a bird book and begun the life-long adventure of recognizing species of birds like other people know song and album titles, like bottles of wine or movie quotes. I am new with the vocabulary, a novice juggling terms like “crest,” “bristles,” and “mandible.” Birding is already an adventure because, unlike more experienced aviary enthusiasts, every bird feels like a new bird to me. The tiny sparrows hopping up and down the sidewalks near my office, the gulls that are a permanent fixture of beaches and parking lots alike, the blue jays, robins, and mourning doves that I have seen nearly ever y day of my life now have identifiable features, migration patterns, and colorings that I can link with their near and distant relatives, and can recognize when they briefly flit by me.

But this was not an everyday duck to me. Even from far away I could tell he was dramatic looking, and his constant plunging and reappearing likened him to a well-dressed magician in my mind, always one second out of reach and beyond understanding. This dive was longer than the others, and I was afraid we had lost him beneath the surf.

“What do you think he’s eating?” I asked Brian, my oh-so-patient boyfriend who now had a first-row seat to my new-found bird show. At least he was good at bird calls.

“Fish.”

I rolled my eyes, “No kidding,” but then I saw him pop up again, twenty feet to the left, “There!”

We raced the breeze until we were directly in front of him, holding our breaths while he remained above the water, preening slightly, as completely unaware of us as we were fixated upon him.

“Do you have your camera?” he whispered.

I don’t know what it is about the presence of birds that makes us whisper, but even twenty feet away with the waves drowning out all noise we felt the need to keep our voices low.

“Yes!” I whispered back, raising the lens. Just as it was focusing on the bird, and not on the foam dotting the surface, he slipped away again.

I groaned, and started along the beach in the direction he had been travelling before. There were other ducks floating on the waves, farther away. We took some shots of them to identify later. I even asked Brian to give it a go, handing over my camera, also known as my other appendage, and hovering anxiously at his elbow in case my feathered Houdini returned.

He didn’t. We continued walking, letting our conversation drift from topic to topic, but my eyes remained glued to the crashing waves, where we had first seen him.

“There!” Brian shouted, pointing. And there he was! Farther from the crashing waves than he had been before, flirting with the swells and diving under just as they crashed around him.

This time I was ready. I had retrieved my camera from a very tolerant Brian, and had the cap off and already zoomed in. Stupidly, I had broken the #1 cardinal rule of a good birder – I had forgotten my binoculars. Luckily, I had followed rule #2 – bring a camera. I was counting on my zoom to act as my binoculars for the afternoon, freezing the slippery devil in time so I could compare him to my book later.

 Holding my breath and clenching my toes, I strained my eyes as I willed the bird to stay still.

Click.

“I got him!” I exclaimed, jumping up and down, “I got him!”

“He’s still there,” Brian said, pointing.

Back to business mode. I zoomed farther in, sacrificing some quality for a chance at more details along his body.

Click.

“Another one!” I breathed to myself. And then he was gone again.

We followed him up the beach nearly to the Chesapeake bridge. By some twist of fate, when we turned back he did too, and we followed him a good distance back down the beach. I tried to photograph him again, but he was never still for long enough. By the time I spotted him again, he’d be gone. I no longer stressed about it though, I had my two photos, and that was enough. Now I just enjoyed him. Seeing a new bird was enough to make my afternoon, having a picture I could excitedly ID later and show my friends and family was an incredible added bonus.

He was a Red-breasted Merganser, with a black head, dark orange beak, and bright red eyes. With a white neck, a rust covered breast, and black and white back, he really was stunning.  He did what all birds do; he showed me a different way to look at nature. I spent the entire hour traipsing the beach and staring at the surf and the waves beyond. I saw countless other species of gulls, osprey, and diving ducks that I had never noticed there before, peacefully floating out past the shore. When I return to the beach – it’s really hard to keep me away, you can ask Brian – I will look there again!