Not very long ago, I moved to a ranch in the Texas panhandle and began learning the birds. I hadn’t planned to study birds, but found myself in a place where wildlife and birds are everywhere apparent. After being a city girl for much of my life, I found that everything about country life was new, including this newfound interest in birds. Perhaps it’s inherited — my grandmother was an avid bird-watcher, and her bird books and journals inform and delight me still. I soon began acquiring a small library of my own. I don’t claim to be an expert, but simply do my homework, keep my ears and eyes open, and then share with others what I've learned.
     This beautiful Panhandle ranch that I’m so lucky to occupy drapes itself across a portion of the Canadian River Valley, and contains within its boundaries rolling prairie, wetlands, four ponds, and a tree-lined creek. Two miles from the nearest neighbor, fifteen cattle-guards from town, it is the perfect setting for a student of the birds. The High Plains and the Panhandle itself are located on the migratory route known as the Central Flyway, which provides a nearly endless stream of migrants passing through.
     Most of learning birds is paying attention. The rest is doing the homework. Several years into the journey, I don’t claim to be an expert, only a willing student in a fortunate circumstance. This place seems blessed with an abundance of birds, in an abundance of habitats — it would be foolish to turn away from opportunity. And while it’s only my opinion, I do believe that learning birds is good for the brain and good for the soul as well.

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What’s often on my mind is the contrast between those early days when I first began and now. This old house, despite its many charms, was uninhabited for twenty-five years, which made me the first human to live here in a long, long time. Lately I’ve begun to realize what an opportunity I was given, and how I wasted it.
     I felt the need to establish myself when I first arrived and was always staking claim to territory — maybe it would help keep the rattlesnakes away. I came stomping onto the scene with the subtlety of a bull, declaring my little piece of the prairie. In the process I probably chased away many birds who were used to this place being empty — the very ones I’ve been chasing after ever since!
     If I could turn back time, I would treat this whole place like a giant bird blind. I would creep about inside and out, binoculars at the ready. I’d approach the local population with discretion and humility, and strive to never give offense. I’d take long, stealthy walks along the creek, or I’d camp out by the pond — waiting, watching, taking notes.
     If I could go back to the very beginning, I’d make up for having blundered into Eden unaware. Not that I’m complaining. In truth I still do all those things. The difference is I know a little now about what I may have missed.
     (And as for the rattlesnakes, well, for the most part, they go their way and I go mine.)