SPRINGFIELD, MO. — Two brief cries of a robin, penetrating the glass front door.

A big black crow on a high dead limb, resting, then launching itself into the void.

Soft, musical goldfinch sounds.

A jay far away.

Thread-waisted wasp and orangey skipper collide atop a dandelion.

One grackle flies over, high, noisy.

Tiny gulps of air to a drowning– no, to a swimmer. Someday I will haul myself out and bask, but today I survive on tiny gulps of air.

SPRINGFIELD, MO. — Two old men, frail shadows, one recovering, one sinking, and I in between, wondering what had become of dignity.

I stepped out of my car, and a turkey crossed the empty street.

Dinosaur bird / I exchange looks: it, wary / I, slaked. Red/blue head snaking forward, back / each tentative step. Blue eyes lingering / feet relentless.

The turkey faded back into its world, and I crossed the threshold into mine:

Two old men, frail shadows, one recovering, one sinking, and I in between, wondering what had become of dignity.

GREENE CO., MO. — As I reported in a recent post, I tentatively identified the Aplonis starlings I saw on Wuvulu as A. feadensis — Atoll Starlings.

I said I was going to email BirdLife International to ask about the range of A. feadensis. I did so, but I did not receive a reply. I had almost forgotten about it, thinking I never would hear back.

But I got an email today, and it didn’t say things I wanted to hear:

“Thank you for your email. Guy Dutson, who is an expert on birds of the Pacific Region, has been in the office today so I have asked his advice on your query. He has recommended Coates (1990), The Birds of Papua New Guinea Vol II, which although it is not a new reference is very good and here in the range of Aplonis feadensis it states that there is a doubtful record of the species from Wuvulu Island. It describes the iris of A. feadensis as ’straw yellow to yellow-orange’.

“However, the very similar A. cantoroides, which is described as having a ‘bright red or orange-red iris’ is definitely known from Wuvulu island.”

Disappointed as I would be to remove the species from my list, it appears that something larger than my personal satisfaction is at stake here. I saw birds with orange-yellow eyes. I saw A. cantoroides (Singing Starlings) in Madang, and those birds had bright red eyes. I know I did not imagine the difference in eye color. The question, I suppose, is whether sufficient variation exists within A. cantoroides to explain what I saw on Wuvulu.

Other questions arise. I find it hard to believe that A. feadensis would be a breeding resident on the Hermits and the Ninigos but not on Wuvulu. On the other hand, I’m sure there are stranger flukes of distribution in the bird world. What is the status of A. cantoroides on the Hermits and Ninigos? And why did I not observe any streaked immature birds on Wuvulu? I did see some birds that lacked the green sheen. Are immature Atoll Starlings streaked? Or are they black and dull? I sure wish I had a field guide that described the species. Is the breeding season on Wuvulu different from that on mainland New Guinea? And why, if I really did see dozens of Atoll Starlings on Wuvulu, does literature widely accepted as authoritative mention only one dubious record?

I’m kicking myself for not thoroughly documenting the birds with photographs and audio recordings. I thought it would be easy enough to check field guides and distribution data once I got home. I simply had no way of knowing what I was up against. And because I had no idea I’d be sent to Wuvulu until I’d already been in PNG for a couple of weeks, I could not do any research in advance. Such excuses sound pretty hollow right now, even to me. Especially to me. I think I’ve learned a lesson. Unfortunately, it was the hard way.

As I said in my reply to BirdLife, I’m not being defensive. I don’t have enough data to be defensive. But I have some big questions, and I hope someone can help me answer them.

GREENE CO., MO. — I wanted to get up early and go birding this morning. But gas is at $3 (or more), and I’d be doing well to find a handful of Forster’s Terns and a cormorant even if I did go out.

So I slept in and then got up to continue digging and dividing the overgrown irises. As I worked, I kept my ears open. Pewees called. Red-bellies chuckled occasionally. I heard chickadees, titmice, a robin, a Blue Jay, a Downy Woodpecker, and a Mourning Dove’s wings as it slid overhead. Looking up occasionally, I saw Chimney Swifts but no frigatebirds. Katrina’s pelagics did not make it here.

Hummingbirds shrieked and tittered in the background. The feeders have recently been taken over by two strong-willed female hummers who sit close and chase away all comers. The bird who has taken over the largest feeder habitually perches on a particular petiole on the Passiflora lutea that is currently trying to pull down the back porch. I’m sure the two tiny tyrants will move on in a few days, but in the meantime, the sugar budget can recover just a bit.

In the afternoon, dark clouds rolled in, and the weather map showed a bright red spot just to the west. I went back outside to get all my tools into the garage and to drag dozens and dozens of iris rhizomes up onto the back porch. Then I sat on the hood of the car to wait for a storm.

Chimney Swifts seemed to be the only things that moved. The clouds were still, and I could not feel the faintest breath of wind on my skin. Thunder rumbled in the south, far away, and the air was heavy. Leaves on two small trees trembled slightly. Air conditioning units droned, and crickets kept up a soft chorus.

A nighthawk flew over, no nonsense. Mourning Doves. Two goldfinches. Then a whole flock of — robins? No, kingbirds, flying high, flying south.

More thunder, a little lightning. Tiny drops. Wind. Wind from the east. A pause. Wind from the west.

But no catharsis. No rain.

GREENE CO., MO. — Movement in the redbud outside my window caught my eye. It was a titmouse. Dry brown pods hung thickly in the tree. The little bird pulled up a pod and peeled back the papery covering. Removing a single round seed, it hopped to another perch to hammer open the morsel. The bird’s feathers were quite worn, and some appeared to be missing.

A few moments later, I saw a small bird on a dead branch 20 feet from the window. Female goldfinch, said my brain. Whoa, whoa, whoa, said my eyes. Yellow-throated Vireo! It sat still for few seconds and then went on its way.

Meanwhile, a female Summer Tanager zipped through the yard, flycatching. She was a rich golden color, and, like the vireo, her plumage was fresh and crisp.

Not so for the Chipping Sparrows. They hopped along the ground, nibbling weed seeds. The adults were faded and worn, their facial patterns nearly obscured. Juveniles wore their brown streaks.

And a robin hopped across the parched ground, bill held open in the heat. The speckled feathers of its youth still clung to its adult-sized body. Its back was scaly, its face strongly patterned, and its breast a colorful blend of orange, white, and gray.

September has come.