The birds care not for our worries... and that's a good thing

Attentive followers of my birding adventures will recall I spent an idyllic morning in New York City’s Central Park early last April. It was sunny, warm, and full of blossoms, happy wanderers and, of course, birds.

I alluded to some family trouble in that post, and while I won’t go into too much detail, I can say that I’ve had very few idyllic mornings since that one in Manhattan. The very next day, while on my way to what was supposed to be the first of many work meetings in New York and Washington, I received the news that my son was in hospital back in Toronto.

That was the day of the eclipse, and I experienced that natural phenomenon somewhat ignobly, at the departures gates in Newark airport, waiting to board my emergency flight home. Crisis followed crisis for the next few months — the kind of rollercoaster unique to the luncheon-meat portion of the sandwich generation — and I am only now emerging from a dense fog of emotional turmoil and stress-induced sleeplessness. The family has been through a lot in 2024.

This all comes up for me today because this morning I was lucky to enjoy a happy couple of hours walking a favourite lakeshore park with my dog, Birdy. On our wanderings, I documented several migrating birds making brief stops on the north shore of Lake Ontario before heading over into New York State and points much farther south. The cold weather is coming.

These fall-migrating birds have built a bridge for me back to spring in Central Park. I remember so well my delight that New York morning spotting White-throated sparrows, knowing they were likely at the northernmost point of their spring migration to date, and wouldn’t be crossing into Canada for another week or so.

Was this morning’s sparrow the exact same one I saw in Central Park, on the return leg? Will it be back in The Ramble next week, taking advantage of the abundant feeders and nights moderated by proximity to the ocean and the ambient heat of Manhattan? I like to think it is, even if the yellow eye-patches have faded a bit over time. Happens to us all.

How were your last six months, sparrow? You look as tired as I am. It’s been a kick in the ass, no?

I recall especially my April excitement at spotting a Golden-crowned Kinglet in The Ramble, and actually being able to score usable photos of this most flittiest of tiny birds. I hear a LOT of kinglets in both spring and fall, but they do love to bury themselves deep in dense brush and, when they are out in the open, they almost never stop moving long enough for even the most responsive autofocus lens — witness my attempt at a Ruby-crowned Kinglet this morning. I managed to de-blur its speed enough to catch the telltale light eye make-up, but that was about it.

My Central Park kinglet photos remain the best record I have of these creatures.

So much has happened since that sunny morning in Manhattan. My son is much better… thank you for asking. My folks are trucking along, and the whole family will be together next weekend for Canadian Thanksgiving, with much for which to be grateful.

Migrating birds included.

At once a voice arose among

      The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

      Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

      In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

      Upon the growing gloom.

— Thomas Hardy, The Darkling Thrush

Bonus photo: