Natty taps at a screen. Sam stands next to him, taut and silent. Seconds later, in ferocious response, a tiny yellow bird flings itself out of the bushes onto a branch. We’re in a forest filled with stilt grass and wineberries somewhere along the edge of West Virginia, about 70 miles from their homes and 4,000 from mine. Throwing his head back, the bird opens its beak in a picture-perfect curve, breast thrumming as he calls shrill and loud: P’chee p’chee p’chee. The grass beneath him sways; just feet away it tickles our legs. Wings beat, and he’s above us, downy feathers blending like tempera to green. A delicate swirl of yellow swerves around his sharp eyes. The eyes of my companions look like those of the little warbler we stand and watch – bright, disbelieving, and frantic. They are 16, avid birders, and best friends. Sam is blond, six feet tall, and thin enough to hide behind a young poplar. Natty has brown hair and has yet to reach five feet. They bounce along the trail in ill-matched strides.
Sam’s arms swing wildly at his sides. “Oh my God,” he says three times, then again, creating his own mnemonic call. He flips through pictures on his camera, whistling at each one fondly.
Binoculars bounce on Natty’s chest as his eyes swivel from side to side in search of a cerulean warbler, the true reason we’re out birding this morning. He jumps at every flash of blue, then stomps the ground and growls, “Indigo bunting.” I think the indigo buntings are beautiful, but apparently they’re too common this morning. I wouldn’t know; I’m used to gray jays and ravens.
Common wood nymphs turn to swallowtails and wineberries to thistles as we near the field. My shoes are soaked through with a cocktail of last night’s rain and this morning’s dew.
“Oh my God, oh my God.” Sam’s eyes are wide and he grins with his tongue caught between his teeth. I could look back and wonder how someone so alive could ever live anywhere but the forest. Perhaps I did wonder this. Perhaps I saw the real Sam for the first time here, in the woods. The person he hoped he could be, that somehow got overshadowed by lockers and hallways and the Virginia skyscrapers that don’t even reach the flattened bases of the clouds. Perhaps it was the bird I was seeing. A “life” bird for me, if I kept a list the way he does.
At night Sam stands in the middle of the field, in the dark. He’s wondering about us as he star gazes – people who are eagerly willing, craving, desiring, needing to push everything aside to admire the corners of the earth that haven’t yet been crisscrossed with highways and cell signals. He thinks maybe everyone gets a little bit excited about birds and butterflies, but they just don’t know it yet.
These two friends’ excitement makes my heart race, and I can’t help but be alert to sudden movements in the trees and bushes. Their passion is infectious, and I’ve caught it. I dread to think if I had been alone or in any other company, how I may have missed the way this little bird brought life back to my eyes. Perhaps it wasn’t the bird at all but these other two minds, so unashamed in their awe. So raw and brimming from a coincidental meeting with a tiny wild creature.
I am not sure where it comes from, passion. The human tendency to become so deeply attached and intrigued with some detail of this huge universe. There is enough fervor and spirit in it to drive us all mad with determination. Some of us are too afraid to embrace it, but just now, I see it live and blossom like a flower more elaborate and delicate than the human brain could ever hope to capture.
The humid air holds all of our heartbeats, washes across the ashen wings of the floating wood nymphs and beats slowly against the dewy bark of the canopy trunks. Tapping the screen under the words Kentucky Warbler, Natty’s recording plays its rhythmic trill like a resounding wire. P’chee p’chee p’chee. The bird returns the call one last time to guilty smiles.