‘Here I am. Where are you?’

This was not the start to the day that I had imagined. In an ideal world, I am a morning person. In an ideal world, I arrive half an hour early to birding trips, giving me ample time to scope out the area on my own and maybe even track down that yellow-throated warbler I’ve been hearing about. In an ideal world, the 7 train runs on time and is not jam-packed with cyclists early on a Sunday morning. I do not live in an ideal world.

It was 8:05 in the morning, and I was running late for a much-anticipated Central Park excursion with my hometown Audubon group, cursing under my breath at the Five Boro Bike Tour that had delayed my train. Despite the chill in the air, I had already managed to work up a sweat from running three city blocks laden down with binoculars, camera, field guide, and water bottle. My anxious inner monologue was just beginning to get going after I jaywalked across Madison when I heard it. Not halfway across the block to 5th Avenue, and I could already hear the chorus of birdsong ringing off the ornate facades of the embassy buildings that abut the park.

…old sam peabody, peabody, peabody…

Come in, come in, come in, the sparrows—and they were my sparrows, the white-throats seemed to say. It’s cold out now, but it will be a good morning.

So I did, and it was. I may not be a morning person, but I think if I spend enough years doing this I just might become one.

After weeks of waiting, the trees have finally begun to leaf out (though not so much as to obscure the birds), and the woods were lush with spring ephemerals: mayapple, trillium, wild ginger, Virginia bluebells. I honestly don’t mind that Central Park is a bit of a zoo this time of year; I can go other places if I want a solitary communion with nature. When a mad rush of migrants descends on the only green space for miles around, the resulting crowds are almost as much of a spectacle as the birds themselves. I’d take this over Times Square any day of the week.

We spent almost 4 hours birding the Ramble, and I think I could have stayed longer had it not been for my aching feet. It was an overcast morning, which at times made it nearly impossible to distinguish colors against the bright white backdrop of sky, but the warblers were there; oh, they were there.

Black-and-white warblers were everywhere, creeping along tree trunks right at eye level, and common yellowthroats skulked behind their black masks in the underbrush. An ovenbird strolled along the perimeter of a chain-link fence. Along the water’s edge, a northern waterthrush wagged its tail as it criss-crossed a stream, and later I saw the same bob-bobbing action from a handsome palm warbler with his natty rufous cap. But the main action, of course, came from on high: American redstart and northern parula, Nashville and magnolia, yellow and yellow-rumped, black-throated blue and black-throated green, prairie, and finally—a fitting denouement—the lovely chestnut-sided warbler.

That darn blackburnian warbler continued to elude me, and I never did get a decent good look at the Canada, but I didn’t mind; fifteen species of warbler is a not a bad way at all to start the day! We also got very nice views of two scarlet tanagers, a rose-breasted grosbeak just hangin’ out in the grass, warbling and red-eyed vireos, Baltimore orioles, hermit thrush, and a whole host more. Here is hoping that the rest of the month is just as productive as this morning was.

And if you hear a red-eyed vireo singing his song (“Here I am. Where are you? I’m up here. In the tree!”), you can tell him that I’m in the park, looking up.

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