You look for the anomalies. The things out of place.
Life's little mysteries.
Brown-headed nuthatches are not supposed to be in my part of the world. Check the range maps, most of the Southeast but not Tennessee. Not here, the pine forests to the south. They feed on pine nuts, the edible seeds from the genus Pinus. (Genus Pinus. You can write for a lifetime and never use that phrase more than thrice; I've already used it twice in this one post.)
The first time I saw the active brown-noggin pixies was in South Carolina north of Charleston. Yet, not far from my house as the crow flies, or even walks if it has a mind to, there's a small peninsula—Louisville Point Park—surrounded by Lake Loudoun that has a cluster of pines not that much larger than Uncle Buck's cornfield where you can routinely find the petite nuthatches. Why do they like it, who knows? They are certainly not talking. "No comment," they squeak.
He's a wonderful little bird. How great that you have found him as far west as you have. Seems a lot of birds are breaking their natural habits.
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