Ringed Kingfisher

The powers of concentration of the ringed kingfisher, the largest in the Americas, would make the most accomplished meditator feel like a caffeinated kindergartner in a toy store full of puppies. When hunting, she can hold her intense focus on the water below for up to two hours at a time, her attention unwavering, undivided, and unbroken. We humans are lucky to manage a few seconds, deluged and distracted as we are by ceaseless and disparate stimuli, much of which originates between our own ears. Her physical stillness belies the torrent of data coursing through her from her surroundings, a continuous flow of invisible energy from prey to predator. Her keen eyes catch the slightest ripple, the subtlest shadow, the briefest flash of silvery scales, ensuring that she will not miss her moment. She is not always successful, of course. Her potential meal is just as adapted to avoiding her powerful bill as she is at wielding it, but even a miss will not disrupt her flow state. She will simply return to her perch, shake the beads of water from her glossy blue-green and orange feathers, and begin again.

Northern Black-throated Trogon

Trogons are part of a “basal radiation” of bird species, which is a fancy way of saying they are ancient, the trunk from which other evolutionary branches reach forward. Current research hints at the shape and essence of this lineage, though the exact connections remain murky. Even the clearest water obscures our vision when it is fifty million years deep, where the earliest trogon fossils are found. Still, something about these birds, beyond just their stunning iridescent plumage, sets them apart; some important signal penetrates those depths. Though they tend to sit motionless, they command one’s attention, as if their separation from other birds in time somehow draws them into sharper relief. As they slowly roll their heads to gaze at you through eyes fixed in their sockets, they silently convey a sense of that unbroken stream that connects now with antiquity, all manifested in a thing of tropical beauty.

Central American Agouti

Tropical forests conjure fears of venomous snakes, stinging insects, and deadly poison dart frogs, but those are just the obvious risks. Imagine finding yourself suddenly bombarded with six-inch, four-pound projectiles falling at fifty miles per hour. These mystery missiles are the fruit of the Brazil nut tree, and hanging out under one at the wrong time poses real danger. The intact fruits are huge, heavy, and tough, and only the agouti, with its sharp rodent teeth, can open them. The dozen-plus nuts inside (technically seeds) are more than one meal, so they bury the leftovers, sewing a new crop of Brazil nut trees that will rise back to the rainforest canopy in another hundred years. The husks the agouti leaves behind fill with water, becoming homes for other species, including the poison dart frog’s tadpoles.

Geoffroy's Tamarin

I featured this little monkey on the cover of my 2025 calendar. It is twelve inches square, making the Geoffroy’s tamarin on the cover about 70% actual size. No bigger than a gray squirrel, it is the smallest of the Central American monkeys. This one and its family played it cool until we finished our lunch, then snuck into the dining room at Canopy Tower to steal a snack when the big primates weren’t looking.

Black-bellied Whistling Ducks

I am the father of a teenage daughter, so for me, the phrase “familiarity breeds contempt” is now permanently associated with Taylor Swift, who includes the line in the lyrics to her song, Bejeweled. The adage is usually attributed to Aesop, which means it predates Miss Swift by over 2,500 years. Timeless wisdom indeed! With some birds, like these black-bellied whistling ducks, I can see the point. While I am always thrilled to see them, attractive and interesting ducks that they are, I can imagine that one might grow tired of their presence. As the name suggests, they do, in fact, whistle—quite a lot, actually. As nocturnal feeders, they do much of their whistling at night, and in areas where they are abundant (much of the southern U.S.), they do it in large numbers. I’m sure a huge flock of noisy whistling ducks bustling around the neighborhood pond in the middle of the night can get old. I am also sure that, like so many things that grow familiar over time, we would miss them terribly if they were gone.

Reddish Egret

This reddish egret is obviously not reddish in color. Egretta rufescens comes in two morphs (“forms”): its eponymous reddish color, and white. The white morph is far less common, but otherwise identical. The reddish egret is our rarest and least studied member of the heron family. It, and all egrets, were hunted for their plumes nearly to the point of extirpation (local extinction) in the United States. In the late 1800s, millions of egrets were killed each year simply to decorate hats. Their feathers once sold for $32 per ounce, more than the price of gold at the time. Imagining the heartless killing of these beautiful creatures in the name of vanity, it is tempting to judge our ancestors as monsters, yet this was almost certainly not the case. Their monstrous acts, like so many others, were born of ignorance, a lack of knowledge. Thankfully, we saw the error of our ways and changed course in time, but just barely. Today, there are still only 1,500–2,000 mating pairs of reddish egrets in the United States, with most, including this individual, in Texas. For me, knowing that I was almost denied the privilege of witnessing this fragile, yet fierce bird dancing in the shallows is clear evidence that we must never stop learning.

Red-winged Blackbird

Can you see this species close to home? If you live anywhere in the United States, the answer is yes. The same applies to most of Mexico, and all but the most northern parts of Canada. The red-winged blackbird is one of the most abundant species in North America. With an estimated 250 million breeding pairs, their numbers are comparable to another abundant species on this continent: Homo sapiens! They occasionally form flocks in the millions. Males, with their shiny black plumage and namesake scarlet-red wing bars, go out of their way to make themselves visible, calling and displaying constantly from cattails, power lines, and high perches everywhere. Females, like this one, are much more discreet, staying closer to the ground where they nest. Their abundance is largely a result of their adaptability. While they prefer wetlands, they can manage perfectly well in agricultural and suburban environments, too. We have more in common with these birds than just our numbers.

Eastern Towhee

This striking black and rusty-orange bird, with his intense red eyes, is not a rare or exotic species from some far-off place. This male eastern towhee popped up out of the brambles at Cherokee Park, just a couple miles from home. I can often find them in our backyard, yet experience tells me that for many, this photo will be their first introduction to this bird. Perhaps that is not surprising for non-birders, but it happens to me too. Each year I find some new creature I have never seen before despite living near it my entire life. For me, this is one of the great joys of nature. Such discoveries are proof positive that our life experience is defined by what we pay attention to, and that there are little treasures everywhere if we only take time to look. So the next time you are hiking or walking in your local park, listen for the distinctive “tow-HEE!” calls, or the louder-than-expected chicken scratches of these birds turning over leaves as they forage in the thick brush. Take a moment to look more closely, and odds are you will find these birds hidden in plain sight.

Gray Catbird

Even the plainest of birds is remarkable. This nondescript dull gray bird belongs to the family Mimidae, the mimics, along with mockingbirds and thrashers. Among songbirds, Mimidae are the virtuosos. Unlike humans, who have a larynx and vocal cords, birds have a syrinx instead. In birds, the syrinx is located at the spot where our trachea forks into two bronchial tubes. Sound is produced by vibration of the tubes themselves. In songbirds this ability is especially well-developed, to the extent that some, including this gray catbird, can control each side of the syrinx independently. They can produce two different sounds at once, like two hands playing different parts on a piano. Catbirds are named for their mewing, cat-like calls, but they have a broad repertoire, imitating all the other local birds, tree frogs, and even mechanical sounds. Their songs are jumbled and seemingly improvised, lasting up to ten minutes and using as many as 170 syllables. Do we owe music to the birdsong heard by our ancient ancestors? No one knows for sure, but it is certainly possible that it is actually us who are the mimics.

American Bittern

This is the third consecutive year my calendar has featured an American bittern. It is the only species to appear three times, but bitterns are so difficult to spot that I cannot resist including them when I manage to get a photo. The three calendar birds are the only three American bitterns I have ever seen! This individual appeared at Beckley Creek Park in mid-October, just barely making my informal cut-off. It was unusually tolerant of people for a normally secretive bittern; hunting daily along the edges of a pond near a heavily traveled path for several weeks, apparently in no particular hurry to reach its winter grounds in the south. Unlike last year’s bittern, which stood still as the headstones of the cemetery in which it landed, this bird was incredibly active, and a voracious eater. Various birders observed it consuming bugs, fish, a frog, a mouse, and even a small turtle. Will the 2025 calendar include a bittern? I would have to guess not, but then again, I would not have predicted any of the last three, either. The future is full of the unexpected, and often that is not a bad thing.

American Avocet and Black-necked Stilt

I crept slowly and indirectly across the South Padre Island mudflats toward a small group of sleeping stilts and avocets, taking great care to avoid flushing them. As I approached, another man made much faster progress, taking great, splashing strides through the puddles, moving upright and straight toward the birds. I was irritated. This guy was going to scare away not only my stilts and avocets, but all the hundreds of nearby shorebirds that I had yet to check out. Then he abruptly stopped and pulled out binoculars. Could this be a fellow birder, being so reckless? As he struck up a conversation, I sheepishly noticed my hasty judgment. He was not inconsiderate; he was a local, and knew the avocets and stilts were tame enough to approach. He asked if we were looking for anything specific. Yes, in fact, gull-billed terns were on our list. “Not gonna find those here,” he replied. He then provided precise directions to the exact fishing spot where we were most likely to find our birds, which we definitely would have missed otherwise. What opportunities have I missed by not assuming positive intent from the start?