UKARUMPA, PNG — Yesterday, I found a Long-tailed Shrike who was relatively willing to be photographed and a small flock of Hooded Munias who were not.

A brisk, incessant call (one that has puzzled me for some time) lured me into a patch of kunai grass along the road. The grass was over my head in places, but I pushed my way through, following the call.

I tried to bring the bird up with a variety of spishing calls, but it remained totally unresponsive. A grass blade quivered here; something rustled there. I saw a flash of wings once but could not focus through the layers of grass. Then a face peered out between the blades, but only for an instant.

Sometimes I tried to follow the call; sometimes I stood still, following the bird’s movements by sound, not by sight. The bird apparently moved at mid-level through the rank grass, never hitching up a stalk to examine its surroundings, never breaking cover in response to my noisy advances.

After a long wait, I saw movement and managed to get binoculars focused on a small brown head, slightly capped — and then it was gone again.

Moving back in the direction it had gone, I heard someone crashing through the grass and turned to see three Papua New Guinean lads. They seemed to know exactly what I was doing and asked if I wanted to catch the bird.

No, I said, just to see it. They replied that it might come up if we waited, and they stood silently behind me until the bird stopped calling. Then they offered to catch a variety of birds and bring them to me. I didn’t think I could explain why this was the last thing I wanted, so I simply said that I would be going away to Moresby soon, which is true.

As for the identity of the skulker, I suspect Tawny Grassbird, but the final verdict will have to await further evidence.

UKARUMPA, PNG — I posted this picture a couple of weeks ago and promised to explain it later. Now the time has come.

That I get to crisscross PNG is one of the great things about my job. In the last four months, I have been through 11 of PNG’s 19 provinces. I will probably make it to five more between now and the end of October.

This means that I visit the homes of some of the world’s most spectacular birds — but I often don’t get the chance to see them. My work keeps me close to people, which is fine, unless you want to see birds. So, I didn’t see the Ribbon-tailed Drongos on New Ireland, or crowned-pigeons on the Bamu. I passed twice through Murmur Pass without even glimpsing a bird-of-paradise.

I often ask about birds when I’m staying in a village. “Do you have birds-of-paradise here?”

“Istap long bus,” is usually the answer. A loose translation goes something like this: “The birds-of-paradise are deep in the rainforest, several hours’ walk up and down steep, slippery paths through the mountains, and we can’t go there right now.”

Daraia village is east a bit of Morehead, not so far on a map — but far enough on a bicycle, especially if you’ve rammed a rock-hard anthill, stopped to pull a mimosa sticker out of your toe, and bruised your backside beyond cure.

It’s a beautiful village, shaded by big mango trees and coconut palms. White cockatoos and brilliant blue butterflies cross the sky from time to time. When a man asked me if I wanted to photograph “the paradise,” I could scarcely understand him, and then I could scarcely believe him.

“You mean birds-of-paradise?”

“Yes…. We were watching them this morning.”

The next morning, I was watching them too. The females came first, more colorful than I’d expected. Dark brown throats and breasts contrasted with pink-brown bodies, and heads bore yellow wedges. Raggiana Birds-of-paradise!

“We will wait for grass skirt,” said my guide, and I realized he was talking about the plumed male birds. Nama men wear grass skirts to dance, and so do Raggianas. I couldn’t think of a better description myself.

One sunlit tree held a flock of Noisy Friarbirds. The birds are aptly named, and their ridiculous naked heads look like small black rubber balls atop a poof of feathers.

Then someone pointed, and there he was, slipping through the dense leaves after small, ripe fruits.

A throat like polished malachite and a head the color of elemental sulfur, rich red-pink plumes — a grass skirt indeed — and, did I remember to breathe?

He was gone just as quickly, not sticking around for the dance. Instead, the young males put on a show up high. If they realized they were missing their plumes, they didn’t let it bother them.

They laughed, long and loud, and they spread their wings and held them wide, jerking them slowly forward.

My neck ached so acutely that I couldn’t hold my head up. In my country, we call this aching “warbler-neck,” but it deserves a new name here.

I glimpsed two more fully plumed males — one thanks to the sharp eyes of my Nama acquaintances and one flying over the road as I bumped along with my back to Daraia and my face toward the next adventure.

UKARUMPA, PNG — Question: Which former U.S. president has a life list larger than my own? Flap on over to I and the Bird #30 and peck around for the answer!

UKARUMPA, PNG — I see and hear House Sparrows (Passer domesticus) every time I travel through Port Moresby. I’ve seen them around the airport, and in suburban yards of districts like Boroko. Two weeks ago (August 2), I observed adults feeding youngsters in a nest that they’d constructed in the fruit cluster of a small palm.

I thought that Moresby was the only place the species has established itself, but I was wrong.

Ere’ere is a village is on the coast, slightly north of Yule Island and perhaps 60 or 70 miles (as the crow flies) northwest of Moresby. It is home to about 700 people — and to House Sparrows.

Every day last week, I listened to their noisy chirping in the morning hours. The birds were very difficult to see, apparently spending their time high in the crowns of coconut palms. I did get a look at one female as she preened at the base of a frond.

How did House Sparrows get to Ere’ere? Has the Moresby population begun spreading along the coast? Several large, densely populated villages are strung along the coast between the city and Ere’ere, so the scenario is not entirely implausible. Or, could a person have brought them to the village?

If they’ve expanded northwest along the coast, might they be spreading southeast as well?

According to one author, House Sparrows have established themselves in PNG since only 1992. They are not mentioned anywhere in Beehler et al.’s field guide, which was published in 1986.

I found a very interesting account of the first sighting of House Sparrows in PNG — a group of four birds in 1976.

At that time, the observers expressed great concern at the birds’ presence and were relieved that all four disappeared. Apparently, the species was not seen again until about 1986, but three years later, House Sparrows were also observed on Yule Island, which is just south of Ere’ere as I mentioned above.

I am curious about the Yule Island observation and will try to get a copy of the old Papua New Guinea Bird Society journal article that documented it. I do not know whether House Sparrows could or would have crossed the sea from the island to the coast, or vice versa.

Do House Sparrows pose a threat to PNG natives (birds or otherwise)? What factors might influence or limit their expansion? Like Moresby, Ere’ere is located in very dry savanna country. Is that important for the sparrows? Could they survive in villages near wetter, forested regions?

Where else might they already be established along the southern coast? Should we be concerned?

UKARUMPA, PNG — For more than a year, I have been looking for a satisfactory, comprehensive list of the world’s birds. I thought my requirements were relatively straightforward: The list should be widely accepted, updated regularly, and available freely and electronically. But reality is not so simple.

There have been several recent attempts to list all the birds of the world and hypothesize about their relationships with each other.

Sibley and Monroe’s controversial list grows more obsolete with each new ornithological paper that’s published. It is rapidly becoming a part of history. Some of the taxonomy used in the impressive Handbook of the Birds of the World is also going out of style — unfortunately, even before the entire series has been published. (This, of course, reflects not on the value of the awe-inspiring series but on its utility as an international taxonomic standard.)

As far as I know, this leaves Clements’ “Birds of the World: A Checklist” and “The Howard and Moore Complete Checklist of the Birds of the World” as contenders for an up-to-date taxonomic standard.

Reviews of Howard and Moore have been mixed. The ABA still names Clements’ taxonomy as its standard for world lists.

Until this year, the Ibis Publishing Company has provided semiannual updates to Clements’ fifth edition. Following Clements’ death, however, the Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology has taken over his project, and the Cornell University Press will publish a sixth edition of Clements’ checklist later this year.

Because Clements’ list is copyrighted, it is not available electronically except with a few relatively expensive birding software packages. Even then, the license is for personal use only.

What Cornell will do with the list remains to be seen, but for now, it appears that the only comprehensive and relatively up-to-date bird lists will be confined to expensive paper volumes or software packages.

Meanwhile, our knowledge and hypotheses about bird taxonomy are growing and changing at a very rapid rate. DNA studies in particular are shaking up traditional views on taxonomy, and it appears the changes will continue for years to come. For example, see these recent proposals for the ‘Sylviidae’.

Though some birders grumble about the constant upheaval, I’m convinced that this is an exciting time to be a birder. But we need a taxonomic ’standard’ (see Ronald Orenstein’s comments about the nature of taxonomic lists) that can readily adapt along with our knowledge.

Birders all across the Web are wishing for a freely available electronic list that we could adopt as a de facto standard. The benefits to such a list would be tremendous. An online database could respond quickly to new discoveries, unlike a printed book of 800 pages. (See, for example, Don Roberson’s ever-changing list of world bird families.) Enterprising birders and geeks would surely create a fantastic array of new services and mash-ups to enhance our birding lives.

But the demands in putting together and maintaining such a database would be enormous. The project would require extensive ornithological knowledge and experience, great technical competence, and the time and energy required to analyze perhaps hundreds of scientific papers and other documents every year. It seems that there is no one with both the ability and the desire to undertake such a project, or at least not yet. Perhaps the day will come.

Until it does, I’m left wondering: Should I order Cornell’s new book?