I suffer from what I like to call OCB—obsessive-compulsive birding. It isn’t really a disorder, just a way of life that dictates how I plan my vacations and spend my mornings. I’ve never crashed my car or missed a major life event because of a bird, but my journals are packed with twenty-one years of data tracking every arrival. I suppose it’s the quiet moments, like the smell of damp pine near the woods, that keep me coming back to the logs.
Usually, the Eastern phoebe and the tree swallow arrive right at the start of April. But this year? The weather has been stubborn, clinging to that old-fashioned, biting cold that makes you dread the morning drive. The Eastern phoebe is a bit of a character—alert, feisty, and just plain adorable. They like being around us, too. They’ll build their mud-and-moss nests under house eaves if you let them, which is exactly what one did at my front door years ago.
I remember watching the nest grow from my kitchen, right behind the coffee maker. I’d see these little gray streaks of feathers darting back and forth. It was pure magic hearing those chicks beg for food. And the “evil eye” they’d give me? Nothing beats that. You could see the suspicion in their tiny, bright eyes before they fledged. It’s funny how a creature so small can hold so much personality.
But life gets in the way. During the pandemic, I had my siding replaced, and the nest was destroyed. The mother tried to rebuild, but it didn’t take. She didn’t come back at all last year, and honestly, the house felt a bit empty without those little visitors. It was a genuine loss.
Then, this past April 4th, I finally saw one. A phoebe. Just sitting there, taking in the yard.
I’ve got the nesting shelf prepped and ready to go. I don’t know if she’ll bite—or if she’ll find it—but I’m hopeful. If I can just get one to nest, maybe the whole tradition starts over. The tree swallows are still lagging behind, probably waiting for the air to warm up a bit. Maybe they’ll arrive soon. Or maybe the weather will just stay gray for another week. Who knows with spring?
If you see a swallow, let Misryoum know. I’m waiting for the next wave of migrants to finally push through this cold spell.