The birders standing around with scopes and binoculars at the small park that borders the Shawangunk Grasslands National Wildlife Refuge are discussing the first bird of the  year, putting their wishes out over the grass fields. “I hope it’s not a Tufted Titmouse,” one says and everyone laughs.

What everyone fails to notice is that the last—or near last—bird of the year is pretty spectacular. Take your pick—in front of us are soaring about a dozen Northern Harriers, their sleek fast bodies just above the grass line as they hunt near dusk. There’s the dark morph and the light morph Rough-legged Hawk, both impressive perched in a tree. And then, what we are all here to see: the Short-eared Owls, large floppy wings taking them to the far reaches of the grasslands. They perch in the trees, ghosts in the twilight, then take flight, like oversized moths, the flight jagged; if you tried to catch one you would miss.

Peter and I loiter at the grasslands—it is warm out, in the fifties, so loitering is possible (past years I’ve frozen waiting for the owls). This natural area is wide and beautiful. If you squint, you can imagine you are somewhere in the Midwest, where fields trail on for miles. This was a airfield, used for military training. In the past year the state has ripped up the asphalt landing strips and seeded the area with grass and wild flowers. Even with the asphalt it was a place that the owls migrated to in winter. In the long grass must be a wonderful store of mice or voles. 

As the sun sets, an owl swoops near to us, its eyes visible in its disc-like face. It’s a phantom from the other side, a ghost from the past. We stand for a while taking in the sight of the owl, the cold and hunger push us back toward the car. When we arrive at the small parking lot, an enormous flock of Canada Geese honk their way overhead, heading for a night’s roost.

The first bird of the year is symbolic, sets the tone for the year to come. It’s a sign of good luck, perhaps. Peter and I both want the first bird to be an owl. So Peter sets a baby monitor on his front porch and we fall asleep hoping a hoot will wake us. What does wake us near dawn are coyotes howling.

January 1, I’m hesitant to go outside. “What if my first bird is a Tufted Titmouse?” I joke.

“Just plug your ears,” Peter suggests.

When I step outside the first thing I hear is the distinct caw of a Crow. Though some would rather that the crow not be their first bird, this crow cheers me. Crows are magnificent birds, smart and with a complex family arrangement. They are common enough, but still special: big and black and bold.

Our visitor from the past; photo Peter SchoenbergerWe are driving out to explore vast fields, lost empty land in the city of Kingston. Peter’s first bird flits in front of the car: Junco, that gray and white visitor from the north. Ok, so this isn’t a Barred Owl. Or, like last year, the Great Horned Owl. But not a Tufted Titmouse.

“At least I can be happy that my last bird of the year was a Short-eared Owl,” I muse as we hurtle down the road into our day.

“No it’s not,” Peter says. “Canada Geese.”

He’s right, of course. Keeping me honest for the New Year.