29 November, 2006

The Ol' Birdwatcher In Me

It was a spectacular sunny crystal clear autumn day yesterday. Looks as though the good weather front is over today.

I left work early yesterday afternoon on my bicycle and took a long luxurious roundabout route home. The route takes about forty-five or fifty minutes to ride, but it passes through a nature park on the periphery of the city. Ducks, swans, and various (for me) unnameable birds populate the river’s water edge, the empty-leaved trees and wooded areas.

It is just a delight to ride there now, because there is just no one to be seen. What a rare thing this is indeed, especially somewhere so close to a city.

My friends, T., an environmental and bird scientist*, and K., an avid birdwatcher, are probably shaking their heads in astonishment and disbelief at my complete incompetence at naming bird life. The only four birds that I can identify reliably are: a) Fried Chicken, b) Thanksgiving Turkey, c) Christmas Goose, and d) Nasty-tempered Swan. When trying to identify anything else I either say: a) oh look, a bird (honest answer), or b) if that isn’t a double-breasted triple-thigh wobbling shrill beak, then call me uncle (UNCLE!).

* I don’t know how to spell the name of this science and, after looking in the dictionary I’ve only come up with someone who puts braces on your teeth or a foot doctor. Why did they give us dyslexics a name for our disorder (don’t start on spelling and reading challenge… no PC need in this department) that none of us could spell? Why did my parents always answer, look it up in the dictionary, every time I asked them to help me spell a word? That’s like telling someone who is lost in the woods to use a compass, even though he has no idea where he is!

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