When I was young – 10-12 yrs old- my parents became members of a group that wandered the swamps, woodlands, and marshes of the Northwoods of Wisconsin, in search of….birds. Yes, birds. They called it “Bird Walks”. Every 3rd Sunday of the month was spent stomping around with septa- and octo-genarians in search of elusive species such as the Scarlet Tanager, Indigo Bunting, and Purple Finch. Those days were absolutely horrible for me, a source of great emotional pain, and probably the reason I drink. You see, all my friends were playing baseball, and I had to run off to see birds with the family. To this day my brother and I have beers and reflect upon those days of yore, missing the baseball game and general shenanigans of the neighorhood. Yet….in a funny…and fukked up sort of way, everything came full circle. I photograph and watch birds virtually full-time. The young lady depicted above has reared two broods and is working on her third. Her nest has been destroyed twice by storms, yet she has “endeavored to persevere”, and those young will soon fly away. My girl-person just yelled at me after reading this post, saying I’m placing blame where it doesn’t belong. My point here is that I love my parents to infinity and beyond for making me go on bird walks.