I am NOT a birder. Birders have life-lists and binoculars. Birders are early-risers. Birders plan their vacations around the northern extent of the trogon (Chiricauhuas) or where to see 47 varieties of hummingbirds (Ramsey Canyon). Birders systematically memorize field marks like trailing white on the wing to distinguish the resurrected Ivory-billed woodpecker from the pileated.

Granted, corvus is on my totem and birds figure in my photos, dreams and poems. I loved Burt Lancaster as The Birdman of Alcatraz and cried a bit during The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill; I’m one of the few people to stay awake during the Kestrel’s Eye. Every day I watch for the neighborhood road runners and hawks. I think turkey vultures are wonderful and deserve to be respected as condors. And, yes, I can distinguish an Inca dove from a white-winged dove. So what if I recognize the dipping flight of flickers and several different sounds made by robins, the dandelions of birds — who doesn’t?

You’re thinking I’m in denial, but I deny that. I’m just a hanger-on, an occasionally alert friend to birders. I’m not a birder, a dancer, a musician or a lawyer — even though all my friends are.

And when my friends head to Ecuador this fall to see birds, I’m just going for the fun of it all. I’ll be damned if I’ll start a life-list. mjh

PS: Last night, I sat among 200+ bird nerds listening to my friend, Dave Mehlman, talk about the Ivory-bill. Afterwards, a man behind me said, “he’s pretty funny for a bird guy.” Dave has been our bird guy on three expeditions to Bosque del Apache and one to the Monticello Box.

PPS: Today, acting on a tip from an Audubon member, we looked for the recently-relocated yellow grosbeak in the side yard of a friend. That this Mexican bird has never been seen in New Mexico really rocks the birders’ cradle — or so they tell me. Here’s Merri’s account.