I have become a birdwatcher.

That is it in a nutshell, or a sunflower seed if you wish. I’ve long been a people watcher, passing the time happily in airports or waiting rooms while making up fictional biographies of the folks around me. But bird watching is new. Simply a birdwatcher. No way do I wish to imply that I have become a professional birder. Many of my friends are and I have both respect and admiration for them. Not only do they actively pursue our feathered friends to the ends of the earth, they are so darn smart ornithologically speaking that I immediately develop an inferiority complex when their talk veers toward birdie subjects.

My bird watching skills are far less sophisticated and ambitious than those of my dedicated friends. This may sound crazy but I look at birds and immediately identify them with people. In demeanor and routine they mirror definite personalities. You have to know that most of my watching comes as I am standing behind the bay window in our kitchen, usually wiping a glass or mixing a batch of bread or...daydreaming. I tend to do a bit of that. So my bird watching is akin to looking at specimens behind glass or children playing in a park.

Morning craziness begins when the cardinals (Richmondena cardinalis) swoop down for a drink at the communal water dish. (Not a birdbath, just a large metal ashtray resting on a table approximately 10 feet from my kitchen watching post.) Males gather in clusters and remind me of people pushing towards a bar at a crowded party. Once they have their drink they zoom back to their mate, chat a bit, then return to the bar (err, dish) once again. Only after they are sated do they allow the ladies to belly up to the bar.

The vesper sparrows (Poocaetes gramineus) remind me of ladies gathering at the Mall before heading off to a sale. There is never just one sparrow; rather, clusters of two’s or three’s. Chit, chit, chit, drink, pick at a crumb, nervously roam about and then off. I can almost hear them arguing about where to find the best bargains this day.

Mr. Robin (Merula migratoria) is my favorite. Rather, the Mr. Robin that I see almost on a daily basis at the watering spa. He reminds me of Sir Winston Churchill. He does not deign to hop up to the water dish; I think that would offend his dignity. With his slow, rolling gait, Mr. Robin is a true mimic of the great man. I fantasize about a cigar in his beak and a rolled up black brollie under his wing. Strut all you want, Sir Robin; you are proof positive that Spring is on its way!

In this political year, the blue jay (Cyanocitta cristata) is the big cheese. He simply has to be the boss of EVERYTHING. His descent has the subtlety of a 747 and he immediately, boisterously, shoos any lingering birds into the boxwoods. The image that flashes into my mind is that of a powerful caucus boss working a roomful of potential voters.

Catbirds (Galeoscoptes carolinensis) are the troublemakers, the gadflies who love to stir up a ruckus. They never enter the scene quietly, but dive in herky-jerky and chatter endlessly about nothing. I see catbirds as well-meaning citizens who petition for and against everything or collar their fellow man for a charity at every opportunity.

Not to be ignored are a host of favorites, the nuthatch, the purple finch, the chickadee. All have brought an eclectic mix of color, song and personality to our table. On a good morning I can almost believe they are spectators at the latest Spring showing in New York, crowding around the runway for the best seat in the house.

Maybe there is a name for this near-phobia I’ve developed. I just hope I don’t start identifying Friends as birds...the way I identify Birds as Friends.

Author Barbara Dickinson lives in the Roanoke Valley.

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