Some days, the weight of work lingers long after I shut my laptop. The kind of day where my mind feels cluttered, my energy drained. But I knew exactly what I needed—a camera in hand, fresh air in my lungs, and a connection to the wild.
The sun was shining, the sky was clear, and the air was absolutely freezing. But that wasn’t going to stop me. My soul was calling—to the shoreline, to the birds, to the peace that only nature can bring. So, bundled up against the cold, I grabbed my camera and headed out.
The first bird I spotted was a Killdeer, standing at the water’s edge. I pulled over, parked, and slowly made my way toward him. He knew I was there, but he didn’t seem scared. Instead, he seemed curious, tilting his head, pacing the shoreline, dipping his beak into the water. Almost like he was waiting for me. And so, in that moment, I named him Kevin.
Killdeer have a signature way of bobbing up and down before dipping their beaks into the water—a behavior thought to help them spot movement beneath the surface or startle small prey into revealing themselves. Watching Kevin’s rhythmic motions, I couldn’t help but admire the instinctual wisdom of even the smallest creatures. Kevin strutted along the shore, moving back and forth as if he knew I needed his attention—like he could sense that I needed this moment of connection. I watched, I photographed, and I thanked him before moving on.
Then, BAM! It was like stepping into a wildlife wonderland.
First, more Killdeer scattered across a nearby golf course, their little legs moving in quick, rhythmic steps.
Then, as I walked closer to the shore, hoping to spot some seals, I noticed a tiny Dunlin—a little sandpiper, perfectly camouflaged against the beach. Dunlins are master foragers of the shoreline, darting along the sand with quick, deliberate steps, probing the wet earth with their slender bills in search of tiny invertebrates. This little one moved with such precision, following the rhythm of the waves, as if dancing with the tide itself. I quickly snapped a few shots, taking in its delicate beauty.
And then, in the distance, I spotted a lone Plover, perched on a rock, bathed in golden light. He stood there, watching me. Not afraid, not startled. Just there. And so, I named him Pete. Pete moved back and forth on his rock, his small body framed against the vast landscape. He seemed to look right at me, as if to say, I see you. It’s okay. If I can make it, so can you.
Plovers have a quiet confidence about them, standing their ground even in the vastness of the shoreline. Pete perched on his rock, shifting slightly with the breeze, his keen eyes scanning the world around him. There was a resilience in his tiny frame—a reminder that even the smallest beings can hold their own in a big, unpredictable world.
For a moment, I just stood there, taking in his presence—this tiny bird, so small in such a massive world, yet standing firm, resilient. It was humbling.
Then, my aunt’s voice rang out. "Eagle!"
I looked up just in time to see a majestic eagle soaring overhead. I wasn’t sure if it was Eddie the Eagle, a familiar sight from past adventures, but I’d like to think it was. He eventually landed on a log, perfectly framed by the snow-capped mountains. Despite the freezing air, Eddie stretched his wings slightly, allowing the sun’s warmth to seep into his feathers. Raptors like eagles rely on this subtle sunbathing to regulate their body temperature, absorbing as much heat as possible to stay energized in the cold. Watching him, I couldn’t help but admire how nature provides for its own, even in the harshest conditions.
I said nothing. I just watched. Snapping a few photos, breathing it all in.
As the sun began to set, I made my way back to the car, frozen to the bone but with a heart completely full. Wildlife and nature have a way of healing—of reminding us to slow down, to appreciate the beauty around us, to find meaning in the smallest moments.
And speaking of a small moment, just outside my car, two little birds fluttered down and landed nearby. I quickly raised my camera, managing to get off one shot before they flitted away. Reviewing the image, I realized one of them was a red-headed finch, its crimson crown glowing softly in the fading light. There was something so simple yet profound about that fleeting encounter—a tiny bird, pausing just long enough to be noticed, as if to leave me with one final gift before the day was done.
And for that, I am endlessly grateful.
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