A Mixed Mash of Birds, Colors, and Emotions - Sept 6, 2025

I set out early this morning with a clear plan in mind: find peahen babies and kestrels. I had visions of tiny chicks toddling after their mom and kestrels perched gracefully in the golden light. But nature had other plans. No peahen babies. No kestrels.

Instead, the universe offered me something different — and in its own way, just as magical.

I found a peahen mom stood in front of a garbage can today, her chicks nearby. I couldn’t help but pause. This — right here — is the definition of urban wildlife. A wild creature navigating a world we’ve reshaped, balancing instinct and survival against concrete, cars, and trash cans. It’s a reminder that nature adapts to us, but it’s also a call for us to adapt to it — to make our shared spaces safer, cleaner, and more welcoming for the beings who live alongside us.

Mama Peahen

Mama Peahen

Peahen Baby

Peahen

And then there were the starlings. Hundreds of European Starlings swirled and gathered, a breathtaking murmuration in motion. Some of them still had whitish heads — their fading juvenile feathers giving way to the iridescent purples, greens, and speckles of adulthood. Watching them, I was reminded that these in-between stages of life are just as beautiful as the fully-formed ones.

At this time of year, starlings gather in vast flocks to prepare for fall migration and winter roosting. Safety comes in numbers, and their swirling dance isn’t just mesmerizing — it’s survival. Predators struggle to target a single bird when hundreds move as one, perfectly synchronized without a single sound. There’s something poetic in that — community as a shield, connection as a form of resilience.

Beyond the birds, the world was drenched in fall’s brilliance. Everywhere I looked, fiery oranges, soft pinks, deep purples, and vibrant yellows spilled across the fields and hedgerows. The colors were so intense, it felt like nature had turned the saturation up to maximum — an unapologetic celebration before winter’s quiet sets in.

Not long after leaving the starlings, I came across a small group of cows and two beautiful horses basking in the afternoon sun.

The cows stood contentedly, lazily chewing the lush green grass, while the horses swished their tails in quiet rhythm. All of them were completely at ease, unbothered by my presence. They knew I was there but didn’t mind — the grass, the sun, and the moment were far more important. Watching them reminded me to slow down, breathe, and simply be — to tune out distractions and focus on what truly nourishes the soul.

And that struck me: head down, tune out distractions, and focus on what nourishes you most.

A goshawk soared overhead, fast as lightning, too quick for my lens but breathtaking to witness.

Down by the water, a solitary Great Blue Heron stood still on a rock, sunning himself in perfect silence.

Nearby, pigeons and cormorants huddled together, soaking up the last warmth of the day beneath a soft, misty light.

I may not have captured what I went looking for, but what I found was exactly what I needed.

Finnegan came along for the adventure, and he did wonderfully on his walks. Each outing, he grows more confident — and so do I. At one point, my aunt gave Finn a little break in his backpack, his “safe space,” and seeing him nestled there, content and curious, made me smile.

But beneath the surface, my mind felt heavy. Grief is a strange, unpredictable thing, and recovering from surgery hasn’t made it easier. My body is still healing, my heart still tender, and there are days when the weight of it all makes the tears come without warning.

Being in nature helps. It always does. Watching the birds return for fall migration is pure magic — their patterns, colors, and songs a soothing balm for my restless spirit. I hadn’t realized how much I missed their music over the summer until I heard them singing today.

Eurasian Dove

I found myself wondering about them as I watched — about their journeys, their families, their survival. Not all birds stay together. Some fly thousands of miles alone, navigating storms, predators, and endless challenges. Do they grieve when they lose their families? Do they feel lonely, too?

In some ways, I feel like them — a lone wolf navigating my own migration through life, carrying both resilience and solitude.

Through it all, I’m grateful for Finnegan. He’s my little companion, my constant, my reminder that love can show up in unexpected forms. Today felt like a “mixed mash” — a jumble of birds, colors, emotions, and fleeting moments of beauty. And yet, somehow, it all fits.

Nature has a way of giving us what we need, even when it’s not what we planned. Today was one of those days.