odd man out

•

You look for the anomalies. The odd things that stand out.

When I first stepped out of the car, the bird was singing overhead. Finch like yet raspy. It was surprisingly easy to find, perched in the top of an oak, but what was it? Black throat, yellow but not oh-so-yellow breast.

At first glance, was it a warbler? A little too late for a migrant, but this bird was too robust, as large as a chat, or at least it seemed. Could it be a fledging? But no, the song. Too proficient to be just out of the nest. Learning to sing is like learning to talk, it takes time to master the vocal chords. 

Perplexed. I had seen this before. But what? Pulling my tattered and torn Peterson’s from my pants pocket, I perused. Minus its cover, warped and rain-damaged, lovingly aged like those boots you just cannot throw away, it’s the only field guide I actually carry in the field. The Sibley and Kaufman are too pristine to ever leave the house, like Mom's best crochet. What if I dropped it in the mud or marsh?


My Peterson can take it; it's the Navy Seal of field guides. 

I thumbed through the familiar pages quickly past the finches and wood warblers and there it was. An immature male orchard oriole, yet how remarkably he sang? And what an odd-man-out blackbird, Icterus spurious. The species name even means “illegitimate.” How strange.

The answer to the mysterious song came later, when I learned that this species does molt into its mature plumage, doesn’t reach sexual maturity until its second year. It was an adolescent, imitating Dad, but not ready to fill his shoes. 

That was the anomaly.

•