Wednesday, December 18

Grades are in so now I have some time to play.

A little look at birding with due deference to Clement Moore, or if you like controversies, Major Henry Livingston.

‘Twas the week before Christmas, the weather a blizzard,
Not a creature was stirring, especially the lizard;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
Forgetting to fill them, I best not dare.

Smart people stayed nestled, all snug in their beds,
While visions of scrapple danced in their heads.
Lise in her fleece and me in my Tilley,
Tried to hibernate and not look too silly.

When out on the listserve there arose such a chatter,
I ran to the computer to scope out the matter;
Opened up Windows, can’t be done in a flash,
Windows 8 is a piece of Microsoft trash;

The glow from the screen as the photons did flow,
Gave the lustre of midday to objects below;
When what to my wandering eyes did appear,
But an eBird blast near the end of the year;
Too many species, so easy and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be a trick;

More rapid than eagles the species they came,
I whistled and shouted and called them by name;
Great grays and sandpipers, now a screech owl,
I need them all I said with a scowl;
Call Lise and Barb then dash away, dash away, dash away all;

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
Birds won’t stay long, they’ll take to the sky;
We couldn’t wait, so away we flew,
With a car full of scopes, and camera stuff too;

The pier at Muskegon, the U.P., the Soo,
Gottfriedson Road for short-eared owls too?
My head was spinning, all turning around,
I’m two species shy, two more need to be found!

In nylon and fleece, from my head to my feet,
My clothes all covered, with mud, slush and sleet;
With scope o’er my shoulder, I think I’m a birder,
I look more like a peddler, or perhaps a goat herder;

My eyes how they twinkle, all frozen with tears,
Raw cheeks look like roses, where are my ears?
My mouth is frozen in the shape of a bow,
My beard is full of wind driven snow;

The stump of a finger, the chatter of teeth,
My breath encircles my head like a wreath;
I have a broad mind, don’t watch no telly,
But doing this right, takes a fire in the belly;

We’re not masochists but we are a bit tougher,
To get 250, one does need to suffer;
But we still have lives, we all have to work,
I fill Christmas stockings, I think it’s a perk;
There are family obligations, and I like to sleep late,
Still missing my goal, I would really hate;

So I’ll fight the good fight, and try with all might,
To find the screech owl before it takes flight;
But if I don’t make the count, I can say without fear,
Happy Christmas to all, and there’s always next year.