Birding in Central Park : On how communing with nature prepares one for writing.(Brief Article)

Lately, when asked what I do, I've found I prefer "I am a writer" to "I am unemployed." (Though in truth the two mean much the same thing.) And the part of being a writer that I like best is Preparing to Write. It's a wonderful pastime, especially this time of year. Preparing to Write in blossomy balmy spring is a walk through a well-watered glade, where good ideas sprout like blades of grass. Unlike actual Writing. That's a deadly desert under whose heartless sun those tender shoots wither.

Preparing to Write is especially fine in the Ramble at New York's Central Park, a densely wooded area with lots of little footpaths meandering through sheltered grottoes. It's an excellent place for bird watching. It's also an excellent place for gay men to make new friends. As I Prepare to Write--perhaps an essay along the lines of how New York is a city of villages, its myriad subcultures all time sharing with one another--all I need to do is go sit on a bench and watch the birders drift out and the cruisers drift in. And I can even do some birding.

I enter the park at 103d Street, a mile or more from the Ramble. When Preparing to Write, it's better not to rush. So I stop near a small pond to watch the reeds sway and listen to the sparrows. Among the reeds a great egret, its long white neck twisted up snakelike, watches the water. I watch the egret watch the fish.

"Seen anything interesting?" A diffident woman of a certain age, holding binoculars, offers the standard bird-watcher greeting. In New York, subcultures identify one another by certain tokens; birders look for binoculars, swing dancers scan for dancing shoes. I point out the egret. We raise our binoculars, dutifully remark that it is a beautiful bird. We've both seen egrets before.

My acquaintance is visiting from California, taking care of her brother, who is in the hospital. She seems careworn and shy. A bird calls from a nearby tree, its voice nasal and insistent, like a seagull with hiccups. "Flicker," I say, casually; flickers are too common to be considered "good" birds, but I like to show off my knowledge of birdcalls. I raise my binoculars, as does she, and the bird takes off, revealing a golden wash beneath its wings. "Oh," she exclaims. "It's yellow-shafted!" And I think, "Well, of course." All flickers in the East are. But then I realize that out West the flickers are ...