Fading fitzbew: in the Southwest, the embattled Willow Flycatcher faces an uphill struggle for survival.

The shrubby willows grow thick along the Little Colorado River in the White Mountains of eastern Arizona, in a valley surrounded by slopes covered with tall ponderosa pines and Douglas-firs. Early on a June morning the air is cool and pleasant. My boots grow soggy from the wet meadow grasses as I walk from one clump of willows to another, stopping at each thicket to listen.

I hear the melodies of Song Sparrows, high twitterings from Violet-green and Barn Swallows, and the insistent calls of Common Yellow-throats. In the distance, a nondescript gray flycatcher alights on a dead willow branch. I strain to hear. "Whit, whit," the bird calls. I slide in the mud at ...