Song Sparrow Surprise

I don't remember when I first learned the melodious warble of a song sparrow. It may have been in high school honors biology, my first introduction to birding. Or it could have been in a college ornithology class, with hours of field trips around the area that honestly seemed like too much fun to be of any academic value even as I picked up on the appearance and songs of dozens of birds seemingly through osmosis.

Regardless, once learned it was firmly lodged in my head: a set of high whistles followed by rhythmic trills and buzzes. Together with the "Oh sweet Canada Canada Canada" of the white-throated sparrow, the song occupied a middle zone of my memory between the familiar and firmly-entrenched tunes of cardinals and mourning doves, and the sounds of birds that were easy to identify visually--such as the common yellowthroat or American redstart--but whose songs, to me,  remained elusive as I learned them one year, only to lose them by the time the next spring came around.

Several weeks ago, the Greenway was awash in the sounds of a dozen different types of bird: woodpeckers and cardinals, chickadees and goldfinches. I picked out the song sparrow and stood motionless until I caught him flitting out of the cattails and across the trail into some twiggy shrubs. His nondescript "sparrowness"--brown feathers, streaky breast with a heavy dark spot--contrasted with the pretty and memorable sound emanating from his open bill.

I found myself wondering if the song sparrows were returning earlier and earlier in the season.* Was climate change wreaking havoc on their schedules? As soon as I got home I turned to the trusty Google to discover that...song sparrows are one of Iowa's most common year-round residents, along with that darling of state and license plates, the American goldfinch.

How had I overlooked the basic detail about the song sparrow's residence? How many years have I been able to recognize the sound of a song sparrow, yet neglected to notice it winter after winter? What else is happening right underneath my nose, in my backyard and along the Greenway?

The song sparrow is simply a very obvious (not to mention embarrassing) example of our blindness to the world right outside our doors. It is a humbling reminder that, as much as I have learned about the Sycamore Greenway and its inhabitants, there is still so much more to know.

We no longer live saturated in the natural world; we visit as children playing in fields, parks and around our neighborhoods, but very few of us grow up attuned to the rhythm of the seasons and the comings and goings of our wild neighbors. Many of us spend our adult lives trying to play catch-up and learn the things our ancestors knew simply by virtue of their lives as part of a larger world. They had to know which plants are good to eat, how to find fresh water, how to protect themselves from harsh weather or the occasional predator. They had to have the strength and skill to survive the same way that the birds, deer, foxes, and other animals did. We don't have any such requirements in our modern, screen-centered existence.

I know I will never reach a level of competence with regards to the natural world as a human living here 5000 years ago had, or even that of someone my age who devoted more of their early live to living wit nature than I. I will not become an expert on Iowa birds or mammals, and I will likely spend the rest of my life attempting to identify the most common of Iowa's plants and trees.

But each day I learn something new is a success, and each correction of a long-held error is a celebration. I am piecing together an ever-changing puzzle that will never be complete, but as all avid puzzle aficionados understand, the finished picture is not nearly as satisfying as the process of identifying the pieces and fitting them together one by one. My song sparrow friend is one piece, long overlooked, that has finally found its proper place in my mental field guide.

*Seasoned (and even casual) birders, please refrain from laughter.