Reflection #2

I moved to NYC in August of 2020. The world was just beginning to stretch and consider futures with and without COVID-19. Brooklyn was an alien world to me, a lifelong Midwesterner at this point. Inevitably, comparisons between New York and Chicagoland happened as I moved and maneuvered through New York as a new resident. One of the most prominent differences I recognized was the difference in richness of avian species diversity. From my Brooklyn apartment, it felt like the only birds I encountered were pigeons, seagulls, and starlings.

I grew up in a prairie-river basin landscape near numerous forest and prairie reserves. Birds like robins, crows, finches, chickadees, bluebirds, herrons, water fowl, cardinals, mourning doves, hawks, and owls were all birds I observed in my parents backyard at different points in my life before leaving for New York City. This richness was a stark contrast to the relative lack of diversity I initially observed in my new locale. I would not consider myself a “birder” by any means but the prospect of seeing any of these birds, especially an owl or hawk would brighten my day. I share all of this to explain my position and thinking when it came to my observations of the birds of Lindsay Park.

Following “raptors and pigeons week” earlier this semester, I began to appreciate pigeons in a new light. I was initially unfamiliar with their long history as a domesticated animal and quite honestly saw them as a nuisance, if only because my dogs had come dangerously close to snatching a number of them on our walks. After the two classes that week, I started to pay closer attention to pigeons and all of the birds on the routine walks I take with my dogs and fiance. It did not take long before I realized that Lindsay Park was essentially an unintended urban bird sanctuary.

The seven towers, the open flight lines caused by the parking lots, the dated and organized landscaping, and the piece-de-resistance, Sternberg Park’s mighty London planetrees created a habitat ideal for urban birds. I stood and watched as flocks of pigeons would feed near the park before fluttering into the largest tree, before the flock would take flight to the tops of one of the towers. They would perform aerial maneuvers en masse and in unison. Groups would splinter off. Some would fly for the trees located inside the bounds of the parking lot, others would fly east towards the public housing at Borinquen Plaza or the Bushwick Houses. Yet others would return to the park in hopes that more feed would be on the ground.

Recently, two different red tailed hawks have taken to patrolling the skies of Lindsay Park, resulting in an apprehension amongst pigeons, sparrows, and starlings that one can almost feel if you’re paying attention. Despite the presence of these predators, the pigeons, sparrows, and starlings still continue to venture out every day, seemingly staring in the face of their predator. Nature is funny that way, I suppose. Creatures must learn to live with the spectre of death looming just around the corner.

In Illinois I would find joy when spotting a Cardinal, the state bird, or seeing a hawk perched on a light post. A decade ago when I was a freshman at Iowa Wesleyan College, I would venture an hour to the Mississippi River to see a mass of bald eagles on the shores of the river just outside of Burlington, Iowa. Now I live in Brooklyn and find joy in the unintended consequences of an ideal bird environment created by midcentury optimism for a great society. While the Midwest may be more rich in species diversity, the dynamics of Lindsay Park have more than sufficed.