Day 23 of the Quarantine (April 5, 2020)
I hike the trails at the San Pedro River. Alone. The way I like it, introvert that I am, perfectly happy with only myself as company—this is a time of quarantine after all. I’m searching in vain for a Louisiana waterthrush, a “very sparse transient,” whatever that is, to this part of Arizona. Recently, it hit eBird’s rare bird alert after someone spotted it creeping out of a logjam along the river.
The bird breeds in the eastern U.S. and winters in Central America, the Caribbean, and Mexico, its range this time of year just sneaking up along the Sierra Madre into southeast Arizona. Except when breeding, they are generally solitary, foraging quietly in the undergrowth, unconcerned like me about keeping to regular routines, schedules, and social contacts with others of our own kind. I guess birds can be introverts too.
So far, I find only residents of this narrow riparian slash of mesquite grassland. Song sparrows trill from the riverside willow. A great blue heron stands on its own reflection beneath a dome of cottonwoods. Vermillion flycatchers flare against a sky as hard and blue as azurite. None of these are on my yard list, but the river is less than 15 minutes from my home, so anything is possible. Especially this year when I’m paying attention, drinking coffee and window birding in my PJs.
Yesterday’s tail-flipping, insect-nipping warbler named for a Scotsman protester and immigrant came in at #62 for the yard.
The first person who comes along is also alone. When she looks up and sees me, she reaches for her mask and slips it over her face. “Hello,” she says quietly through the electrostatic non-woven polypropylene fiber as I step six feet off the trail and allow her to pass.
We’re two sparse transients—the only ones here among the feathered tenants.
"I guess birds can be introverts too." Loved this line. The entirety is so good!
The little warbler looks like it's either wearing a hat or a wig