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I’ve lived in forests my whole life, but until a decade ago I could not have told you what was going on beyond my lawn mower’s reach.
I would have perhaps identified pokey woods, the kind where you scrape yourself all to heck when you lose control of said lawn mower. Deep in the swampy woods, you’re always wet and covered in somebody else’s blood from swatting mosquitoes. Tall and stately cathedral woods feel like church, cloaked in reverence and guilt over any noise your body makes accidentally.
Some trees are pointy and others poofy. Some you can climb up but can only fall down. If the branch is covered in a white substance, you probably shouldn’t stand underneath.
That brings me to birds. Until my son got his first bird feeder eight years ago, I would have told you there are only four types of birds in Minnesota: chickadees, crows, eagles and mystery.
But then, like a magic eye puzzle, staring at birds out the living room window revealed hidden images. That weird chickadee was, in fact, a white breasted nuthatch. Ravens are black, too, but their feathers shine like oily rainbows in early morning puddles. Ravens do not say “caw,” but rather issue stern warnings like my elementary school recess attendant. “Wall, wall, go stand by the wall.”
Even absent-minded bumblers like me can learn, and if you know better you can do better.