Let me say that, in some strange way, I’m awed. A little background here: I grew up in New York City and, while still quite young, became a “birder.” Watching birds in the 1950s was not an activity a teenage boy was eager to advertise, and yet, however quietly, with my best friend (and his uncle’s borrowed binoculars), I did it in what remains a spectacular spot for birds in the spring migration season: Central Park. And sixty-odd years later, I’m about to do it again (just as I have in almost all the years between). So, think of me as a birder for life.
But speaking of life, I certainly haven’t been spending my time reading about birds lately. How could I in this world of ours? I’ve been focused on the never-ending nightmare in Gaza (and the growing campus protests over it). And after all these months, it’s still strangely hard to take in. Let me put it this way: when, in response to a devastating assault, one country invades — you can’t even say another country — a tiny strip of land 25 miles long and packed with people, housing, hospitals, life — and begins dropping 2,000-pound bombs (many provided by my own country), capable of destroying whole city blocks, on it; when it destroys at least 62% of all housing in the area (with more to come); when it kills at least 13,000 children (and that’s undoubtedly an undercount, given all the bodies left in the rubble); when it wipes out almost all the hospitals in the area, uproots 75% of its inhabitants, cuts off food, water, and electricity to many of them, and… well, why should I even go on? You know the story, too, right? And even worse, the leaders of that country don’t faintly consider themselves done.
And yet, in the last few days, I’ve also been living with the latest piece by TomDispatch regular Rebecca Gordon on Gaza — and, yes, almost miraculously, on birdwatching, too. How strangely wondrous and deeply sad it is, especially for me! But let me say no more. Read it yourself. Tom
Celebrating Links Across Species
Amid a Nightmare of War
He’s a funny little chap: a sharp dresser with a sleek grey jacket, a white waistcoat, red shorts, and a small grey crest for a hat. With his shiny black eyes and stubby black beak, he’s quite the looker. Like the chihuahua of the bird world, the tufted titmouse has no idea he’s tiny. He swaggers right up to the feeder, shouldering bigger birds out of the way.
A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have known a tufted titmouse from a downy woodpecker. (We have those, too, along with red-bellied woodpeckers, who really should have been named for their bright orange mohawks). This spring I decided to get to know my feathered neighbors with whom I’m sharing an island off Cape Cod, Massachusetts. So I turned up last Saturday for a Birding 101 class, where I learned, among other things, how to make binoculars work effectively while still wearing glasses.
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