THE METROPLEX, TEXAS — The delightful toucan eyeing us through branches makes up for Birds of the World’s dull, if accurate, title. Accuracy is a gladness in itself, however, and it is not one we are allowed to enjoy much beyond the book’s cover. On the title page, the publisher’s own name is misspelled. The photograph credit for “Sun Concure” made me wince (it should be “Sun Conure”), but who reads photograph credits anyway? The misplaced hyphen in “Gray-crowned Crane” is probably worrisome only to sticklers, but for the record the bird’s crown is not gray. It is the Gray Crowned-Crane.

But two blatant misidentifications are completely unforgivable. Page 261 features what appears to be a Spotted Towhee — blithely labeled “Eastern Towhee.” The bird’s breast feathers seem to cover the base of its primaries, so I suppose it is possible that the bird is a hybrid, or a heavily white-spotted Eastern Towhee, if such a bird exists. Be that as it may, I can think of no excuses for the “White-throated Sparrow” on 259. The bird is a first-winter White-crowned Sparrow, as American birder of even the lowest caliber could have told the Parragon editors.

I am not up to speed on the identification of antpittas, Eurasian emberizids and finches, or broadbills. Can I trust the text to label those birds accurately?

For those able to overlook glaring textual errors, the book’s photographs are deeply rewarding. Some catch their subjects in motion, looking so lifelike that we expect the penguin to leap into the icy sea as soon as we turn the page. Others capture intimate details in the lives of common birds: the Common Treecreeper grasps an assortment of insects in its bill, and the Chimney Swift rests with its spiny-looking young on a nest cemented by strands of hardened saliva.

Many photographs are strikingly composed, like the flurry of Cattle Egrets and the “two-headed” Masked Booby. Many are so close and crisp that each feather can be studied and admired in its own right.

Purists may be disappointed that several birds were photographed in captivity. Victoria Crowned-Pigeon, Brown Kiwi, Scarlet Ibis, and Rothschild’s Myna all display prominent bands on their legs. For some species this is understandable, but the shot of flamingos is so unimaginative that it looks like it came from a small city zoo.

Nevertheless, the book presents birds many American birders have never even heard of: Green-and-gold Tanager, Asian Paradise-Flycatcher, Rifleman, Oilbird, Hoatzin, and Red-legged Seriema. Each is beautiful and fascinating in its own way, and this in the end is the book’s triumph. It is a breathtaking introduction to the world’s birds, and when placed on the coffee table, it could lure unsuspecting guests into a whole world they never knew existed.

“Wow, these birds are awesome!”

“Yeah … say, what are you doing Saturday morning, about 6:00 a.m.?”

Now all I need is a coffee table.

Interestingly, “Birds of the World” represents a small victory for the electronic age. Most of the photographs are taken (with permission) from photolibrary.com. Online content is now flowing onto the printed page, instead of from the printed page only. Anyone interested in pre-ordering your bound and printed copy of “Search and Serendipity: The First 10 Years”?

FORT WORTH, TEXAS — “Taking pictures,” I heard her whisper, but then she revised her analysis. “Binoculars … birdwatching.”

Great.

It was my first visit to River Legacy Park, and I couldn’t seem to get away from joggers, cyclists, small children, and college couples. I had found a little track to the bank of the Trinity River, but even there I was the subject of staring and speculation.

Four goldfinches had flown over and landed high in a tree across the river. They were the first I’ve seen in Texas this winter. A healthy population of chickadees carried on overhead, and a few Ruby-crowned Kinglets hung around the fringes of the flock.

I’d heard a couple of bluebirds and flickers, and one particular tree glowed brilliant gold against the deep blue sky. The warmth of the afternoon sun had lured me into breaking my rule of Texas birding: I went out in shorts and sandals. I paid with a couple of mosquito bites, which wasn’t bad all things considered.

I returned to the paved path and walked back to my car, not convinced that River Legacy was worth much attention in the future. Daylight wasn’t gone yet, so I decided to continue west to Village Creek Drying Beds. I’d seen an old website about birding in the facility, but I had no idea whether it was closed, dried up, or even present any longer.

I zipped past the gate on my first try and had to turn around. But I saw it was open, and that was a good sign. When I pulled in, I noticed a sign stating that the site closed at 4:30. It was about quarter to five, but I decided to go inside just a little bit. I certainly didn’t want to get locked in, so I wouldn’t get out of sight of the gate.

A male scissor-tail rested on a powerline, his tail long and splendid. The road went uphill and around a corner, and I saw a glimmering expanse of shallow pools before me. Pintails, shovelers, and — oo — Bufflehead! And what are these down front? Black-bellied Whistling-Ducks! Three, five!

I would simply have to go further, gate or no gate. About that time, I noticed another vehicle up ahead, and I figured I was safe. If we got locked in, at least I wouldn’t be alone, and maybe they’d know what to do.

The sun was bright, and as I stared out across the pools, I saw a rapid movement on one of the distant levees. It held something in its mouth and ran at great speed, stretching a powerful body to its fullest extent. Not a retriever, surely, but what …? Rounded head, white underneath the tail. A Bobcat! It must be. Gone.

The whistling-ducks took flight, joined by four more. Against the glare, I could make out their white wing stripes, and I even heard them whistle. I crept forward along the berm, stopping every few yards to scan hundreds of ducks. Green-winged Teal were dwarfed by the pintails and Gadwall.

The other vehicle pulled past me, headed the opposite direction.

“Did you see the bobcat?”

I said that I had, against the sun. I was glad for the confirmation.

“It must have gotten a rabbit, or something.”

“Yeah, pretty cool. Do you know if they lock the gate?”

“We’ve never been locked in. But it’s a good idea to have a cell phone.”

Oh. I don’t have a cell phone, but I figured that they would follow their own good advice and that I’d be safe as long as they remained in the facility too. Despite that reassurance, light was fading, and I moved relatively quickly, not taking time to get out my scope. The road descended through weedy habitat full of sparrows and Red-winged Blackbirds. I heard Song Sparrows and saw white tail feathers on one fleeing form, a vesper, I suppose.

As I drove along the low levees, ducks scattered, never flying far. The pintails were crisp and handsome, though they still lacked their long central tail feathers. Many of the shovelers were still working on their breeding plumage, and their orange eyes in mottled heads looked rather fierce. One Ring-necked Duck tagged along behind some dabblers.

A large rodent feeding at the edge of a pool caught my eye. I’d seen others from a distance, and I was trying to figure out whether they were nutrias or beavers. It seemed an unlikely spot for beavers, but I don’t know how to separate the species at a glance when the tail is submerged. This burly creature had long orange teeth. More research to do — in my apartment without an internet connection.

Snipe! It fed inconspicuously at the edge of the pool, and I wouldn’t have seen it without that rodent. I always like to see snipe, and this intricately patterned bird was no disappointment, a beautiful amalgam of contrasting streaks and bars.

Striking Redheads eyed me and then sprang from the water, and with that I really did need to be going. The friendly couple was gone, and what would I do if that gate was locked?

It wasn’t, to my great relief, and I left excited by the potential of my terrific new find, so close to home. Who knows what a winter of birding the Drying Beds will bring? Why shouldn’t one of those hundreds of dabblers turn out to be a Garganey? But even if it doesn’t, I’m sure going to enjoy seeing pintails.

DALLAS CO., TEXAS — Fjord, Schmorgan, Courtney, Miki, Spence, and Lynn all came to Dallas for the weekend. I knew that birding with such a diverse assemblage of people would be a challenge, but I also knew that they’re all intelligent and appreciative folk. Surely it wouldn’t be a total loss.

Upon our arrival at Courtney’s house, I scrambled around trying to finalize directions to some East Dallas birding locations.

We made our way to White River Lake — my first visit to the place — and spent quite a bit of time wandering around trying to figure out where to go. We finally arrived at a section of waterfront and piled out of the vehicles to look at birds.

Coots and Mallards were cooperative, and I got a cormorant in the scope so everyone could admire its emerald iris. Great-tailed Grackles strutted up quite close, and starlings in the trees were speckled with white — it’s how they got their name, I said.

Schmorgan had never been birding in his life, and Miki and Spence were more interested in the beautiful day than in the birds. Lynn and I saw a yellowthroat, but everyone else had wandered off.

On another side of the lake, we scoped a raft of Ruddy Ducks and shovelers, and a few pelicans even farther away. By then, some people just stayed in the car.

Heading north, we finally managed to find Spring Creek Park Preserve, and we started down a trail through the autumn-colored woods and falling leaves. The day was warm and sunny, and the trees were silent.

Somehow, we located a Ruby-crowned Kinglet who sat still in the underbrush. A still kinglet? Not a good sign. Nonetheless, the bird afforded Fjord a good look, and he even saw the bird’s scarlet crest.

We wandered around a little more, hearing one or two little birds but seeing nothing more. Before we parted ways, we all got Blizzards at Dairy Queen. I hadn’t seen a life bird, but I try not to let technicalities stand in the way of dessert.

I don’t think we converted Schmorgan, but I believe that Fjord is a goner. While we were still in the restaurant, he carefully noted the day’s sightings on his electronic life list.

ydhttmwfi: Monks Singing Chants …, The Day Nothing Happened, Wycliffe Weekend

ARLINGTON, TEXAS — Always trying to strike a balance between distance, time and stress levels, I tried another route to work this morning. Two gulls flew over the road, catching my eye. When I looked back down, I discovered I was hurtling toward a yellow light. It was too late to do anything but hit the gas and hope for the best. I doubt anyone else even noticed, however, for these Dallas drivers don’t believe in red lights.

On the home front, my yard list has plateaued. Day two of the great experiment has been as uneventful as the first. Yesterday, I hung a little seed bell on the balcony. The label advertised fruit and berries, but I was amazed to discover that it contains only seed and “flavor.” I cannot imagine what practical purpose that serves (last I checked, birds aren’t olfactorily gifted) except perhaps to entice the Bambi birders.

Anyway, nothing has touched the stuff yet. I have seen no evidence of mild-mannered, tidy birds like chickadees or titmice, so if it ends up drawing hordes of grackles and pigeons, it will have to go. Or it may just keep hanging there on its chain of paper clips, slightly crooked, and giving off an aroma of fruits and berries.