The Washed Masses

Watching out the window while answering a Sprint telephone survey, I spotted a little wren shape. Only an hour ago, a downpour rinsed the dust on my car to make mud on the ground for me to splatter on the wheels. I discovered two nights ago that more than one Bewick's Wren think our parking lot an enjoyable place to hop around in the evening.

As is usually the case when there is something to stare at, I was already late and had little time for staring. But there was one hopping around underneath my neighbor's car. He eyed me warily. I took slow steps closer.

Excuse me for a moment while I chase a rabbit. It is most difficult to avoid bemused looks from friends and strangers when one is a 24-hour birder. The same evening I tore myself away from the wrens to go to class, I was speaking with a classmate in the school parking lot. In the middle of our conversation about our class paper, she said, "What kind is it?"

"What kind of paper?"

"No, the bird you're looking at over my shoulder."

She knows me well.

It was actually a pair of cormorants. At least, I think so. That's what they looked like.

Back to my parking-lot wrens. I'm sure if my neighbors had emerged I would have looked quite strange to them. I have done little to combat this perception of me. I brought my crocheting to their marketing presentation the other night.

The wren hopped out of view with each step I took. Perhaps they are shy. Perhaps they think I can shoot laser rays with my eyes. But I wish we could have gotten better acquainted.