The Humble Sparrow

Sparrows, those nondescript little brown birds that are the bane of a casual birder, are both omnipresent and ignored. They are not renowned for beautiful plumage or graceful songs, and in fact are presented as the very embodiment of the common and the lowly--the fall of one sparrow demonstrating the minute and omnipresent attention of God in the Bible, for example.

The handsome Lark Sparrow

For too many years, I--not even a casual birder, but more an affectionate observer of birds I happen upon--divided sparrows into "House Sparrows" and "not House Sparrows," with the former being too ubiquitous for my attention and the latter too vague and difficult to bother with. I would occasionally get photos of a "not House Sparrow" and promptly ignore it as too difficult to identify. Sometimes I would get an easy one--a White-throated Sparrow singing "Oh sweet Canada Canada Canada" was fairly obvious even for me, and the heavily-streaked Song Sparrows were common enough that I grew to recognize them as well--but for the most part these drab little skulkers hopped around beneath my notice.

Two developments over the past year changed my laissez-faire attitude toward sparrows. First was seeing a charming little sparrow on the Greenway last May, hopping up from the pavement to grab beaksful of dandelion seeds. Its strikingly-patterned face--bold black stripes over a white face, with a rufous patch over the ear--was different enough that even I could easily match it to that of the Lark Sparrow in my guide. So not all sparrows were nondescript!

Lincoln's Sparrow

Next came the discovery of websites like iNaturalist, where a casual birdwatcher can upload photos to be identified by those for whom even the most blandly-feathered birds are familiar friends. When my attempts at identification are uncertain, these volunteer experts are prompt and precise in their IDs--putting actual names to all those "not House Sparrows" I encountered along the Greenway, like the sneaky Leconte's Sparrow last spring, and Lincoln's and Swamp Sparrows this past October. I could compare my photos to those in both printed bird guides and websites like allaboutbirds.org or audubon.org and then confirm or correct by ID with the help of iNaturalist.

Swamp Sparrow

I am making a point to photograph sparrows with as much zeal as I do the flashier birds I encounter, and attempting to put names to their faces. I still have an unfortunate tendency to assume all sparrows are those I am familiar with, and trying to force them into names that don't quite fit ("gosh, that one looks a little like an American Tree Sparrow, but the beak isn't right...and something is a little off...." "That's because it's a Swamp Sparrow, you goof," says iNaturalist*). But I'm working on it!

Sparrows are an interesting group of birds, worthy of attention in their own right even if they prove to be challenging. Different species can be seen in our area throughout the year, each with their own life histories and niches to learn about. And there are only around 20 species commonly seen in our area...how hard can it be?**


*Dramatization, may not have happened exactly as described. These online forums are consistently helpful and friendly to anyone trying to learn.
**It's pretty hard. But worth the effort! 
 

Nature's Reward

It was cold. I had just spent an hour trudging along the south Greenway, near the wetlands and the Sycamore Apartments, without much to see. Some pretty frost that hadn't yet burned off in the early morning sun. A few chickadees and a downy woodpecker, and way across the wetlands I could just make out one of the bald eagles silhouetted in a snag.

I normally walk or bike the length of the trail when I am taking pictures but this lazy morning I drove down, past the two roundabouts on Sycamore and into the parking lot of the apartments. The sun was shining, but it was still cold enough that my fingertips grew numb inside my gloves. Crunching over frozen grass, I flushed a few pheasants (too quick for my camera) and caught a glimpse of a deer fleeing my approach far ahead. I am not as stealthy as I like to hope.

Heading north, towards home, I decided to try my luck at the northern end of the trail, along the north-south segment lined with trees that normally resounded with the taptaptap of woodpeckers. I parked at the end of the new eastward extension of Dickenson and paused at the trail intersection nearby, taking a few desultory shots of the starlings that always hang about in the snags at the edge of the residential neighborhood.

Looking south along the trail, it was dim and quiet. It was still early, so the sun would be behind any birds I tried to shoot. I was ready to just call it a day and head home. But remember the great horned owl you saw there last spring? Yeah, sure. That was a neat surprise. And that little trio of deer you saw a couple weeks ago, down by the sculpture? Yes, yes, also neat. I suppose I can just walk the quarter-mile down to the sculpture and back.

 Not two steps later, I freeze. There was a freaking bald eagle sitting low in a tree, just at the edge of the neighborhood. It was there throughout my silly internal debate about whether it would be worthwhile to haul my chilled carcass along the trail for another ten minutes. After I took a few shots, I debated whether to proceed (and certainly flush it from its perch) or retreat, happy with the blessing that nature bestowed on my cold-be-damned bravado. Lucky for me, the eagle decided that even at that distance I was a little too close for comfort and dropped from its perch, soaring westward with a few strong wingbeats.

I proceeded. Through the woods I could barely see two deer, big and little, at the edge of the clearing opposite. There were bluejays and woodpeckers, chickadees and cardinals. A trio of chubby mourning doves snoozing high up in the sun, feathers fluffed luxuriously.

Nature doesn't disappoint. It can't, because it doesn't owe us anything; we have no right to expect anything from nature. Every time we go out looking for birds, or flowers, or pretty clouds, there is no guarantee that we will find what we seek. But once in a while, we find much more than we were looking for.