Watching Birds

OCCASIONALLY the question arises where does one get ideas for one page essays. The answer, of course, is anywhere and everywhere. Over the past five years my greatest inspiration, sad to say, has been Donald Trump. But a little bit of Donald Trump goes a long way, and I confess to have written and published far too many essays on that unsavory topic.  A healthier sources are interviews on National Public Radio. Several ornithologists discussing the beauty of bird watching proved irresistible. They made it sound so wonderful, the lower heart rate, the lower blood pressure, the quiet surroundings, with only bird song to heed. There is an amazing number of bird species, and an amazing number of them which enter into and pass through the average American back yard. I was inspired to think that at one time or another, if only for a fleeting moment, every person on 'earth is a bird watcher, if only of pigeons alighting on skyscrapers in Manhattan. Nearly twenty years ago I moved to a tiny town, bought a hunk of land, and put up a house, on a vacant lot with nothing growing. I littered the ground with seedlings; now I live inside a ring of trees forty feet tall, a veritable forest within a suburban bedroom community. I have a pair of binoculars. Why then, am I not a bird watcher? The answer came instantly: I am a bird watcher, but have never realized it!  I've always had trouble looking through binoculars and seeing a single image, so I do it with my naked eye. My yard is the momentary stopping point of innumerable species. I should be writing them down. I "rescue" stray cats, and have half a dozen living in my garage. it is of paramount importance that I feed them well enough that they show nothing other than a passing, hard wired interest in stalking birds, and never follow through. On a handful of occasions one of my cats has indeed killed a bird; my heart sinks, I feel guilty. the fault is mine, not the cat's. My favorite bard watching story is this: between the ages of thirty and sixty I was a long distance runner hobbyist. I have now retired from the sport. For thirty years my running friends and i sought out scenic, pastoral places in which to run, and in my area, there are many many. Several times it happened. We'd be running pleasantly along a secluded wooded trial, and would come upon a distinguished looking gentleman with binoculars, looking up into trees; an ornithologist. He would be distracted by us, and would glance at us, and just look at us. We were always careful not to speak to him, and to stride and glide as quietly and quickly as possible past and away from him. Long after we had mercifully left him alone I remained filled to overflowing with guilt;  horrible, permeating guilt. never before or since have I felt as guilty to just be somewhere. No matter how many times I reminded myself that I had no intention of doing anything wrong, that had I known he was out and about and watching  would have run somewhere elsewhere - no amount of reason could save me from my guilt, and it still can't. At least now I've sort of made it up to him by finally refraining from encroaching on his sacred ornithological domain. And though he'll never know it, in his honor, as I continue to age and my eyesight dims, I will walk back into the house, grab the binoculars, and at least pretend to be doing what he did.