The Big Yard: Notes from a Pajama Birdwatcher

A Western Bluebird for the last day of 2022.

December 31, 2022 

“We humans live within rings of sound,” Janisse Ray writes in her new book, Wild Spectacle.  “At the hub are the clicking of bones and sinew inside our own bodies and the sibilance of our breathing.”

The outermost ring rests with Pythagoras’ harmony of the spheres, what Janisse calls “the whale-like undertone of the universe singing to itself.”  Perfect.  As I work my way inward, shrinking the radii of each concentric sphere from the chair in my yard, I detect wind stroking canyon walls as if it were a rosined bow.  Tires Dopplering along the highway.  Quivering limbs of trees.  Birdsong.  Creaking hips and knees and jaw.  And finally, the innermost ring of the ringing in my ears.

This year, the ring of birds around the Big Yard amounted to 130 confirmed species.  Twelve kinds of hummingbirds, ten warblers, seven sparrows, and six birds I’ve never seen here before—including one at the center of the ring never seen before in Arizona. 

It’s been a good year.

Yard bird #125 this year, Short-tailed Hawk, first sighting for the yard and a rarity anywhere in Arizona.

Another “life” bird for the yard, #121 Zone-tailed Hawk.

#117 Yellow-billed Cuckoo, only a three-timer for the yard in 14 years.

Yard bird #115 for the year and a first for Arizona, the famous, Orange-billed Nightingale-Thrush.

#105, the Rose-breasted Grosbeak, a rare visitor to the yard.

#101, the common but never-before-photographed Mexican Whip-poor-will.

#98 Grace’s Warbler, another rarity for the yard.

#81, Mr. Outstanding, a male Lucifer Hummingbird

At #69 for the year, a first-ever-for-the-yard, Brown Creeper.

#53 Band-tailed Pigeon. Always a nice surprise.

On the last day of 2022, a small flock of western bluebirds ornaments the winter-bare elderberry tree.  The birds carry small orbs of color on wings of frosted glass.  “I’m acquainted with the bluebird of happiness,” I tell the wife, cheerfully, anticipating the New Year.  “Too bad you’re married to the brown bird of regret,” she says, adding, “who is always pulling out her feathers.”

I appreciate that she likes to keep me grounded.

Time to usher in 2023 and shovel 2022 into the compost heap of history.

The wood frogs, chirping from their vivarium, agree. 

The happy sound raises my spirits.

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