When I was 18, I hitchhiked to Chicago, where another teenaged birder, Joel Greenberg (now a famed author and naturalist), had promised to show me a Henslow’s Sparrow. On a chilly June morning, we visited the beautiful Goose Lake Prairie. Later I wrote a poem about the day; it began like this:
A breezy norther chilled the blood, as little sun was shining.
We slogged across the sticky mud of field and marsh combining,
While all around us, Henslow’s Sparrows laughed, and stayed in hiding,
Eluding birders with their craft, and freaky kids deriding …