In Bozeman, June is coming to an end in its typical fashion: incredibly long days, warm nights, evening thunderstorms, and juvenile birds. American Robins are in their second brood, and the ugly faces of adolescent Tree Swallows line the power lines like gangs of miscreant, loitering teenagers. Short-tailed magpies are increasing in abundance; like Pinocchio, some day they will be real, but only when they've squawked enough lies to make their tails grow to length.
Most indictative of the end of June for me is my mounting wanderlust. I long for the Texas birds I saw in March, for the pebbly beaches of Alaska, or the unexperienced canyons of Arizona. The oft-quoted mantra of "Every bird is a good bird" is indeed virtuous; and I strive to be an righteous birder. But the reality is that the end of June always means jaded discontent with my local patch.
It is likely that this is a result of my typical American materialism, a more soul-threatening condition than being bored with House Wrens. But, when I'm philosophical, I chalk it us as an innate awareness of my transient mortality--so many birds to see and so little time. The whimsical dreaming of other unseen birds approaches the state of psychosis as the first of July draws near. My wife knows well what that faraway glint in my eye means; she insists on driving more, never leaves the kid alone with me for too long, keeps me away from the hot stove. She understands that this too will pass, as the summer always does.
She also understands that this longing for More actually flows from a deep appreciation for what my local patch has taught me. The countless hours of pleasure spent with these so-familiar birds and the knowledge of all that I haven't seen combine to create this annual soul-ache. And this year an early July trip to Alaska will be the Balm of Gilead my soul needs.
