The Birds of Our Lives

I walk my dogs along the Potomac River most evenings. My route has become second nature, the curve of the path, the movement of the river, the parts of the walk I know by heart. Often, I turn a bend and have the opportunity to marvel at the sight of a Great Blue Heron poised along the bank, looking regal in the setting sun. For me, my walk doesn’t feel complete without the sight of this bird greeting me at the end of my day. 

I had a similar experience earlier this year in Austin. I was there for the annual South by Southwest conference. Everywhere I went, I was greeted by the loud boisterous calls of Great-tailed Grackles. They congregated in trees outside the meeting venue, hopped around tables in the restaurants where I ate, and called from rooftops and trees throughout the city. I saw them represented on souvenirs and in local artwork. There is even an Austin bar named for them.

Like Great Blue Herons on the Potomac River, Great-tailed Grackles are an intrinsic part of Austin. They are part of how the city sees itself. They are woven into its character, its rhythm, its daily life—part of its identity.

I experience the same thing when I visit the Chesapeake Bay. For me, the Bay is the home of Ospreys. Their nests mark the landscape. Their movement traces the shoreline. Like the grackles in Austin, they show up in the imagery of the region—in logos, on signs, in the mementos people take home with them. Their presence reflects the health of the Bay. I notice when they are there, and when they are not.

Over time, a place and the birds within it begin to feel inextricably linked. I expect them to be there. I trust they will be.

And then, sometimes, I sense something different. A sighting missed. A stretch of shoreline that feels quieter. A patio lunch without the usual visitors. A moment where I catch myself noticing what is not there. Small shifts, easy to dismiss at first, until I begin to sense something is off.

What gives me hope is how much more clearly those shifts can now be observed. New tools allow us to follow birds with greater precision, and we are working to bring these advances into our work so we can recognize change sooner and respond accordingly.

This is what makes our work successful. It starts with paying attention and noticing small shifts before they become larger ones. It means recognizing change as it is happening and acting to protect something before it is in crisis.

In the end, this is what is at stake. A world where the Great Blue Heron remains part of the Potomac River. Where grackles continue to shape the feel of a city street in Austin. And where Osprey still define the Chesapeake Bay. A world where the birds that define a place remain inseparable from it. 

This piece originally ran in the Summer 2026 issue as the Audubon View. To receive our print magazine, become a member by making a donation today.