since there is a huge flock half-paying attention to me right now. They seem to accept my presence as they make no effort to bother me. If I move in too close, however, the ones closest to me walk or flutter to the interior or to the opposite outer edge of the sand barge. The distance they keep is just one of the characteristics of these and other birds, and interestingly of birders themselves. Is it too judgmental to call birders distant? My view of them comes from interactions on the Leslie Street Spit or in Central Park—and I wasn’t a birder in these locations, more a cruiser of the noted range. In these spots, I would watch them hunt for a particular species with binoculars, pick on seeds and sandwiches stored in Ziploc bags, call out “yellow warbler on the North Meadow!” and similar exclamations, and reference pocket books for relevant information. They are very generous at passing along the information they do find about birds to amateurs, like me, as well as professionals. So what if they are more comfortable with and interested in creatures that do not require or inspire cuddling? The only thing that definitively separates them from their study is that they don’t shit from branches. They either store waste like camels, or hunt for the nearest outhouse or restroom or tree or briar patch. I speak of private habits here because I have a sudden urge to use the bathroom. A portable toilet in a cur-
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vature of the cul-de-sac where I stand would be the discrete place to release. Instead of standing in the stink and swarm of a prefabricated outhouse, I decide to whip it out at the rail and arc a stream of piss over the land below. No one is around. It’s getting late. What can be the harm? A founding father once insisted that a certain amount of rebellion might be said to be in the best interest of a considered life. But to rebel against something, even in a small way, is almost always to fear payback, to assume some consequence in the future. Would some authority figure write me a summons for my exposal and expulsion? That there would be no consequence to my shooting piss over a railing or invading the Leslie Street Spit would quickly pull me toward an understanding of the rebel stance, which might be associated, in part, with the birding stance. A birder always feels that she is getting away with something when she captures in her frame the bird or birds of the day, seeing something hidden from those who are not in the know. And seeing what others do not pulls the birder back to a primitive part of herself—to those first sights that she marveled at as a child, those moving images and flash tableaus that she “claimed” even before she knew she was claiming them. These sights, if lined up chronologically, would lead us, like a trail of bread crumbs, to a portion of her authentic self. Birders, if anything, are authentic—very spe-