They moved through the sere grass in abrupt, unsynchronized movements, like actors in a silent movieβthree steps, head cock; three steps, head cockβeach in its own direction. My blood quickened. Here was something unexpected; a large flock of robins, at the end of winter, in prairie habitat.
The naturalist in me lives for these novel encounters, when observation lifts a veil on a new story. I watched more closely. The disjointed marching was regularly broken when a robin stabbed at the freshly thawed ground. I bent down to see what the robins hunted, but could find nothing on top of the thick mud. The original flock was only diminished by about a quarter. While robins overwinter in the Missoula valley, they do so in small numbers.
Most years there are fewer than 50 total individuals reported on the Missoula Christmas Bird Count, an annual winter bird census. And while robins can seem ubiquitous in summer, they are spread more evenly across the landscape and confined to habitats that have at least a few trees for nesting.
The unusual combination of elements pointed to one conclusionβthis was a migrating flock of birds. They were my first sign of spring that year, a memorable marker of the turning seasons. The hunt for those moments when observations weave into prior experience to create a new story inspires my naturalist growth.
It was my previous experiences watching and studying birds that framed this moment as unusual and, consequently, infused it with magic. The thrill of personal discovery, of creating stories from observation and experience, is the richest joy I find in being a naturalist. And that thrill never ends. Just as my prior bird study created the opportunity to recognize the flock of robins as a sign of migration, the experience itself became the foundation for more discovery.
