I Thought He Watched Birds

By Ted M.

The room was quieter than I expected.

Most of the people there were older women. A few Chinese attendees sat near the back. The questions were practical. Feeders. Seed mixtures. Migration timing. Backyard routines.

At the front of the room stood the owner of the company. I had looked him up earlier that day. Decades in the business. Community events. Bird walks. Educational talks.

Without noticing it, I had already formed an image of him in my head.

Someone who had spent years standing quietly in forests, someone who had learned patience from watching birds.

The session began. His answers were quick and professional. Several ended with the same phrase:

“It’s on the website.”

I raised my hand.

At first his eyes moved across the room without stopping. Then they settled on me for a moment and he pointed in my direction.

I asked what changes he had personally noticed in birds over the years. Not reports. Not statistics. Just things he himself had seen.

There was a short pause before he answered. Long enough for me to realize I already knew what I wanted him to say.

He said most of the team handled that side of the work.

I asked again, more gently this time. How does someone spend thirty years around birds without becoming a birdwatcher yourself?

A few people shifted in their seats.

When he answered, his eyes moved briefly somewhere past me.

“I don’t really watch birds.”

For a moment, the room felt flatter than before. Not hostile. Not tense. Just ordinary.

I asked about rare birds in Canada. About species disappearing from certain regions. About starlings and how they spread across North America.

He said he didn’t know that story.

Then he turned toward another question about bird food.

The room settled back into itself immediately. Feeders. Seed. Seasonal routines. People nodded and continued taking notes.

Earlier in the session, he had imitated several bird calls from memory. The sounds came easily.

I did not feel disappointed.

Not because I thought he was lying. Because I realized how much of the person I had completed myself before he even spoke.

At the end of the session, a few people stayed behind and continued asking questions about bird names and food.

I gathered my things and started toward the door.

One of the women from the group looked at me briefly and smiled.

I smiled back. The gesture caught me off guard.

Not because it was unusual. Because it felt like recognition. As if she had noticed something I had not yet admitted to myself.

She smiled as if she understood.

Then I left.

That evening, I knelt beside a garden bed without turning on any lights and pressed my fingers into the soil.

I had been thinking about birds all day.

I ended up touching the ground instead.

Ted M. is a gardener in Vancouver, BC.