Birds of Sunset Park: Birding gods don’t play requests

It’s somehow almost August again, and we’ll soon see the first flow of returning migrant songbirds starting to move through the city, heading back toward their wintering grounds in the tropics.

Despite fall migration being technically upon us, August — or at least much of it — feels more like throat clearing, rather than the real thing. So, I hope you’ll indulge me as I take this time to shed light on one of the less visited parts of my birding brain and focus on the birds you don’t see. If that sounds baffling and obtuse to you, I won’t disagree, but let me dig a little deeper and explain myself!

I first started birding back in 2021 in the Bronx’s Pelham Bay Park. While on Hunter Island, where I typically saw more deer than I did humans, I had a formative moment when a bird flitted by me too quickly for me to identify it. Inexperienced as I was, I felt this failure to ID the bird keenly, like it was a real loss. What was that bird? Will I ever see it again?

Over time, I have seen all the expected species in New York and so, almost certainly, whatever bird eluded me on Hunter Island, I have seen its kind again. Probably a good number of times! But then again, not definitely. One of the joys of birding is that crazy rarities can just turn up.

In late May, while birding at Bush Terminal Park, I happened to look up as three White Ibises, a crazy rarity in Brooklyn, were flying over the woods. However, the only reason I was looking skyward and saw the birds — rather than being deep in the woods, looking and listening for warblers and other expected migrants — was that an impromptu rave was taking place at the edge of the woodlands and it was deafening in there!

This freak sighting underlined for me just how impossible it is to see everything, even if you’re birding a small park. One person can’t be looking skyward and nosing around for sylvan songbirds and keeping an eye out for flyby waterbirds — which is why birding with other people is not only a pleasure, but also a real advantage.

Over time, I’ve learned that missing stuff is part of the game. If you go out with the intent to see a particular species, those best-laid plans may simply not come to fruition.

During the first year of birding in Sunset Park, I had my heart set on seeing an American Woodcock in the park, as I’d heard they sometimes pass through during migration. I looked studiously for them every day, with no luck. Then, to my dismay, I found out that another birder had wandered around the park for just a few minutes … and seen a woodcock. It seemed unfair and, frankly, a little disrespectful!

I’ve since seen many woodcocks in the park, but that moment underlined what one of my good friends likes to say: “The birding gods don’t play requests.”

I’ve now reached a place where birding is, apart from a few rare moments, a relaxing and meditative practice. It definitely helps that I can now identify the expected birds, often with very incomplete information. But more importantly, I know now that every birding experience is unique and should be taken for what it is, not what it’s not.

I also have learned that patience always pays off (even if it’s not in the way you might expect it to!), and there’s joy to be had every time you pick up your binoculars.