**Day Five · Thursday 8 May 2025 · Mesopotamia, Saint Vincent** The claws wrap tight around the rusted iron rod, yellow toes gripping the crumbling top of what looked like the remains of an old concrete fence post. Its feathers are damp, clumped in places from the soft rain still falling. The bird doesn’t flinch. It watches, one eye turned toward me—sharp, steady. We were on the Richland Park–Montreal Road, heading up to Montreal Gardens in Charlotte Parish. Somewhere northwest of Mesopotamia, west of Biabou, southwest of Greiggs. Bhavna was in the back seat, Paul at the wheel. I can’t remember if she saw it first or if I did. Either way, the moment we noticed it, Paul offered to stop. He knew how much I loved photographing birds. Maybe he wanted to help me feel better about not seeing the Saint Vincent Amazon on the Cumberland Nature Trail. I don’t know. I welcomed the opportunity. I knew immediately it was some kind of raptor. Even from a distance, you could see it in the posture—upright, composed, completely still. Paul pulled over, but the angle was wrong—too far, too oblique. So he eased the car forward into a farm entrance, tyres on wet grass. He said he’d handle it if the owner came out. I got out slowly, camera already in hand. Bhavna and Paul stayed in the car. The bird stayed where it was. I walked forward, careful not to rush. Broad-winged Hawk (Buteo platypterus) · Thursday 8 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 3200 · 1/250 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/22 The post was old, covered in moss, two rusted bits of rebar jutting from the top. The hawk—though I didn’t know its name yet—seemed unbothered. It just watched. I could hear Bhavna’s voice from the car, low and amused, and the faint hum of the engine behind me. The air smelled like wet earth and cattle and rain. I managed six shots. Each time I edged closer, the hawk shifted—sometimes just the head, once the wings. Then, just like that, it lifted off, wings wide and low, curving upward and landing further into the farm, out of range. A single beat. No sound. Just gone. Later that afternoon, back on the veranda, I uploaded the photo to iNaturalist. Paul had already gone home. That’s when the ID came through—Broad-winged Hawk, Buteo platypterus. Not a bird I expected to see. Not one I knew well. I spent the next half hour reading up on it. I learned they’re not always easy to spot in St. Vincent. The Broad-winged Hawk prefers forested slopes and edges, often sticking to the highlands, though some venture into farmland if there’s enough cover. They feed mostly on lizards, frogs, and large insects, sometimes even small birds or rodents if the chance arises. This one was probably watching for movement in the grass—waiting, not idling. They’re solitary most of the year, secretive, rarely calling unless it’s breeding season. It felt like luck that the hawk let me near. ### Like this: Like Loading... Birds Travel Wildlife BirdingBirding LiferBirds of the CaribbeanBroad-winged HawkButeo platypterusCharlotte ParishIsland BirdsLesser AntillesRichland ParkRichmond Park–Montreal RoadSaint VincentSaint Vincent and the GrenadinesTropical BirdsWindward Islands

The bird hung in the air, wings a blur, the metallic green of its body catching the sun in shifting fragments of light. Above its head, the small crest—dark at first glance—flashed deep blue as it tilted, each feather edged so fine it looked brushed by hand. Along its throat and chest, green-gold tones rippled and faded with every slight movement, as if the colour itself were alive. Bhavna and I were returning from breakfast at the Sugarapple Inn. It was our last day on Bequia. As we crossed the yard of the Bequia Beach Hotel, heading back toward the beach to reach our cottage, Bhavna’s gaze caught on a flicker of movement among the Ixora shrubs. She slowed, pointed, and there it was—the Antillean Crested Hummingbird, no more than a few metres away. Antillean Crested Hummingbird (Orthorhyncus cristatus) · Thursday 15 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 8000 · 1/1000 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/14 It hovered with precision, dipping its long bill into a cluster of red blooms. Ixora, rich in nectar, offers the concentrated sugars a bird like this needs to sustain the constant motion of its tiny body—its heart beating hundreds of times a minute. In the wild, it would also seek heliconias, hibiscus, and other tropical flowers, each visit feeding it and carrying pollen between blooms. Small insects—gnats, fruit flies, tiny spiders—make up the rest of its diet, taken mid-air or plucked from leaves in quick, darting snatches. The garden around us felt unhurried, the colours deepened by the morning sun. Glossy leaves caught the light, the Ixora’s reds almost glowing against the green. A faint wash of surf came from beyond the sand, mingling with the dry rustle of palm fronds above. Antillean Crested Hummingbird (Orthorhyncus cristatus) · Thursday 15 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 8000 · 1/1000 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/14 The hummingbird worked methodically, lingering at each flower for only a second or two before pulling back to hover, crest flicking with the movement. Each shift revealed a different facet of its plumage—sometimes brilliant and iridescent, sometimes muted—as the light caught or slipped away. Its wings moved too fast to see, more a tremor in the air than a sound, a soft pulse that seemed to hold the moment in suspension. We stood still, careful not to close the space between us. The bird’s movements were both confident and watchful, each hover no more than a breath before the next dart forward. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, it rose higher, crest catching one last glint of light, and vanished over the shrubs toward the edge of the hotel grounds—perhaps to another garden, another set of blooms. The Ixora trembled faintly in its wake, the morning returning to its slower rhythm. * * * These photographs were made using the updated camera setup I described Birds, Bequia, and the Lens. ### Like this: Like Loading... Birds Travel Antillean Crested Hummingbird Bequia Bequia Beach Hotel Birding Birding Lifer Birds of the Caribbean Friendship Bay Grenadines Ixora Coccinea Lesser Antilles Orthorhyncus cristatus Saint Vincent and the Grenadines Tropical Birds Windward Islands

I hadn’t planned the morning. I just wanted to move, to do something with the early part of Monday while Bhavna was still asleep. I had gone to bed early the night before—around 8PM, which is rare for me in New Jersey. That gave me a head start. I left the cottage at 6AM with my Fuji X-T3 and the 150–600mm lens slung over my shoulder. The light was still gentle. The air hadn’t lost the coolness of night. Behind the cottage, the ground was damp with overnight dew. A pair of Zenaida Doves scratched quietly at the soil. A Tropical Mockingbird flitted along the old stone wall, pausing now and then to listen. High above, a Pale-vented Pigeon sat motionless on a electrical wire, half in shadow, keeping watch over the small birds below. I walked slowly. No sudden movements. It felt like I had been let in—not fully, but just enough. I spotted a Tropical Mockingbird on the lawn, staying low and alert. I stood still. It hopped, paused, tilted its head. Then it jabbed at the ground and came up with a small green caterpillar dangling from its beak. That detail mattered—not just for the photo, but for what it said about the bird’s focus. It was working. Feeding. Maybe preparing to return to a nest hidden somewhere nearby. Tropical Mockingbird (Mimus gilvus) · Monday 12 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 800 · 1/80 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 467.6 mm · f/7.1 Tropical Mockingbirds (Mimus gilvus) are common in this part of the Caribbean, especially in open or semi-open areas like roadsides, scrubby fields, and village gardens. They’re bold birds—confident, territorial, and unbothered by human activity. Unlike their northern cousins, they don’t mimic other species’ calls as often. Their own song is bright, varied, and piercing—less a performance and more a declaration. This one didn’t sing. It was too focused on breakfast. Their diet is mostly insects and fruits, and occasionally small lizards or eggs. On this morning, the mockingbird was busy picking through dry grass for caterpillars and beetles. I saw it strike the ground more than once. The movement was fast and precise. It knew what it was doing. I stayed low and started shooting. The light was soft and low, with just a hint of warmth creeping in. I waited for the Mockingbird to face the right way, watching how it adjusts its stance, deciding which frame gives the clearest story. The bird never once looked startled. Just alert, doing what it needed to do. Tropical Mockingbird (Mimus gilvus) · Monday 12 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 5000 · 1/250 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 At one point, it turned its back to me and I took the shot anyway. The tail feathers, the light, and the angle all worked. There’s a kind of grace in a creature not needing to perform. I liked that it didn’t care about me. It made the frame feel more honest. Later, reviewing the photos, I noticed how small the gestures were. A turn of the head. A slight bend in the legs. The caterpillar caught at just the right moment. Nothing dramatic happened. But I kept coming back to those frames because they didn’t feel like they were trying to impress. They felt like the bird was simply going about its day, and I happened to be paying attention. Tropical Mockingbirds defend their space fiercely. They are know to chase off larger birds and even the occasional human who gets too close to a nest. But this one didn’t seem concerned about me. It might have known I posed no threat. Or maybe it just had better things to do. I love mornings like this. The absence of rush. The permission to just watch. ### Like this: Like Loading... Birds Travel Wildlife Backyard BirdingBequiaBirdingBirding LiferBirds of the CaribbeanCaribbean BirdsIsland BirdsIsland WildlifeLesser AntillesMimus gilvusNature PhotographySaint VincentSaint Vincent and the GrenadinesTropical MockingbirdWildlife ObservationWindward Islands

A bright yellow Bananaquit greeted me on the veranda the morning of our big hike, singing boldly from the bougainvillea and leaving an outsized mark on the memory of the whole trip.

On our last morning in Bequia, Bhavna spotted an Antillean Crested Hummingbird feeding among the red Ixora blooms at the Bequia Beach Hotel.

This week: Caribbean parrots facing extinction due to laughably small fines, Apple possibly overpaying for a mediocre F1 streaming deal, Seth Godin on creative collaboration, and the surprising complexity of keeping the AWS cloud running.

**Monday 5 May 2025 · Dorsetshire Hill, St. Vincent** The house was still when we returned from Kingstown. No traffic, no horns, no vendors calling out. Just the hum of the fridge and the occasional rattle of palm fronds outside. I hadn’t realised how tightly I’d been holding my shoulders until I stepped inside and let them drop. I wandered out to the verandah, camera in hand, but the heat still clung to the tiles. After a few minutes, I made my way around to the north-facing side of the house—the cooler side. That’s where Mom had placed the garden chairs, where the breeze always seems to gather. It’s quieter there, with a view of the lawn and the edge of the garden. Perched between fresh green leaves in the Orchid Tree, a Gray Kingbird (Tyrannus dominicensis) stood tall and alert—sharp beak, pale belly, and that distinctive charcoal mask across the eyes. I’d seen one for the first time just the day before, also here in the yard. That first one had excited me—a lifer. This one brought something else: calm. Familiarity. Recognition. Gray Kingbirds are bold, territorial flycatchers. They often perch high and still, surveying their surroundings, then burst into motion after insects. But this one didn’t move. It just held its ground, balanced, self-assured. There was no performance—just presence. I stepped to one side, slowly, hoping to find a better view. The bird turned slightly but didn’t fly. Its posture—shoulders back, head lifted—reminded me more of a sentry than a songbird. Gray Kingbird (Tyrannus dominicensis) · Monday 5 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 400 · 1/500 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 I clicked the shutter a few times. Behind it, the black-and-gold gate caught the low sun, and the whole scene took on a kind of quiet formality. After the chaos of Kingstown—lines, traffic, noise—this was what I’d needed. Stillness. Clarity. A single bird in the breeze, holding its post. ### Like this: Like Loading... Birds Wildlife Backyard BirdingBirdingBirds of the CaribbeanCaribbean BirdsDorsetshire HillGray KingbirdNature PhotographyOrchid TreeTropical FlycatcherTyrannus dominicensis

A field behind a beach cottage. A cowbird I’d never seen before.

By the third morning at Sugarapple, I had slipped into a quiet rhythm. Wake early, step softly past the French door, camera in hand, and walk the narrow path behind the cottage. The sky was usually pale and streaked with the last of the morning stars, but by 6:20, golden light was spilling across the grass. Each day began this way—standing alone in the damp field behind the beachfront cottage at Friendship Bay, camera raised, eyes alert, ears tuned. There’s a kind of joy in seeing something familiar and yet always new. The first to arrive were the doves. They showed up every morning like regulars at a café. The Zenaida Dove, stockier than the rest, with a soft pinkish chest. The Eared Doves, a bit sleeker, often in small pairs. Common Ground Doves, tiny and quick. Even a Eurasian Collared Dove now and then—clearly an import but comfortable among the others. They foraged in the low grass, sometimes pecking near each other, sometimes apart. It had only been three days, but I already knew the patches where the grass grew thicker and the little muddy trail to Friendship Road where I always stepped too heavily. This morning, though, there was a stranger in the mix. Female Shiny Cowbird (Molothrus bonariensis), Friendship Bay, Bequia · Tuesday 13 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 640 · 1/250 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 At first I thought it was a juvenile grackle. The posture was familiar: alert, slightly forward-leaning, eyes bright. But it wasn’t quite right. The bird wasn’t glossy, and the plumage wasn’t a solid black or blue. It was dark, yes—but flecked and soft-looking, a dusty brownish-grey that caught the morning light with a quiet texture. The beak was stout and a bit curved. She moved with a kind of nervous energy—hopping, pausing, scanning. I fired off a few frames. The sun was low but already rising fast, pushing sharp shadows behind each blade of grass. The temperature was just over 25°C, and there wasn’t a breeze. The air felt still but not heavy. You could hear the sea on the other side of the coconut trees, slow and even. The bird let me get three clear shots before she moved deeper into the grass. In one of them, she’s looking right at me—curious, not alarmed. I didn’t know who she was until later. I ran the photos through Merlin ID and cross-checked the guidebooks back at the cottage. Molothrus bonariensis—the Shiny Cowbird. A female. The name “cowbird” always felt oddly plain to me, especially for a bird that causes so much drama in the avian world. Shiny Cowbirds are brood parasites. They don’t build their own nests or raise their own young. Instead, the female lays her eggs in the nests of other birds—sometimes several hosts in the same season—and leaves the parenting to them. Some hosts reject the eggs. Others raise the chicks as their own. Sometimes, the cowbird chicks grow larger than the host chicks and outcompete them for food. It feels ruthless. But also strangely elegant. A survival tactic honed by time. Female Shiny Cowbird (Molothrus bonariensis), Friendship Bay, Bequia · Tuesday 13 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 1000 · 1/250 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 The female Shiny Cowbird is quiet in her colouring. Her feathers are brown with subtle streaks, her body slim and watchful. The males, I would learn, are more striking—iridescent and glossy. But this one was no peacock. She moved like someone trying not to be noticed. It’s possible to mistake a bird like this for something younger or less sure of itself. I had wondered if she might be a juvenile—perhaps even of another species. But the structure was all wrong for that. The bill was fully shaped, the feathers crisp and even, and the posture deliberate. There was no fluff, no awkwardness. She was clearly an adult. A mature female, doing what female cowbirds do—watching, moving, considering. Standing in that field, I found myself thinking about presence and consequence. Here was a bird I’d never seen before—one I might’ve overlooked if not for the camera. And yet her brief visit added a new species to my life list. There’s always something slightly miraculous about a lifer—the first time you see a species. It’s not the rarity or even the beauty that makes it matter. It’s the realisation that the world is just a little bigger than you thought it was the day before. That there are still names you don’t know and songs you haven’t heard. Later that afternoon, I thought of the dozens of nests she might have visited. The hundreds of eggs she might have laid. The generations of birds who raised her young without knowing. And how quietly she stood there that morning, almost blending into the grass. ### Like this: Like Loading... 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The branch was dry and bare, the thorns long and spaced just unevenly enough to look accidental. One of them curved sharply upward, catching the soft light from the open lawn. The Carib Grackle was perched low on the cross-branch, body angled, head tilted, eyes set forward. Most of its form was in shadow—black on black—but its pale bill caught a faint glint of colour, and the eye shone with that sharpness these birds always carry. The larger vertical branch sliced the frame in half, quiet but unavoidable. It wasn’t in the way, exactly. Just part of where the bird had landed. I’d been sitting on the veranda, tracing the southern lawn with my lens, panning slowly along the bougainvillea. The grackle came in quickly—landed, settled, then shifted once. I moved too. Stepped lightly, leaned forward, watched for that clean sight line that never really came. I fired off two frames before it flew—no warning, no stretch of wings—just gone, slipping behind the wall into the neighbour’s garden. It wasn’t my first time seeing this bird. I’d seen another earlier in the week, walking across the short grass just next door. The mower had passed through recently, and the bird seemed to know that meant easier pickings. A quick dart forward, a peck, then pause. Efficient. Later, on the Saturday we arrived in Port Elizabeth, I spotted a pair—male and female—moving through the scrub between houses near the dock. Always in motion. Never quite still long enough for a proper photograph. This one, though—this brief moment on the thorned vine—was the clearest I’ve managed. It wasn’t ideal. The branch divides the frame. The light isn’t quite what I wanted. But still. It’s the best I have of the Carib Grackle so far. And sometimes you just have to hold onto what you get. ### Like this: Like Loading... Birds Wildlife Backyard BirdingBirdingBirding LiferBirds of the CaribbeanCarib GrackleDorsetshire HillIsland BirdsLesser AntillesLifer BirdQuiscalus lugubrisSaint VincentTropical BirdsWindward Islands

On our last morning in Bequia, Bhavna spotted an Antillean Crested Hummingbird feeding among the red Ixora blooms at the Bequia Beach Hotel.

A late afternoon Gray Kingbird sighting in the Orchid Tree.

Two quick shots through thorns was all the Carib Grackle gave me.

An encounter with a Broad-winged Hawk on a rainy Vincentian road.

Each Sunday Paper shares links and ideas that caught my attention, with brief personal reflections. * * * Conservation Action for St Vincent’s Threatened Endemic Birds: A Workshop Recap details efforts to save parrots and other species on a Caribbean island. Heartening to see people working to preserve birds whilst the rest of us doom-scroll through extinction updates. Jason Snell examines Apple’s Formula 1 TV Deal for red flags, questioning whether Apple overpaid for streaming rights. Corporate hubris meets motorsport—what could possibly go wrong? Seth Godin’s The Writer’s Room reminds us that good writing comes from collaboration and iteration, not lone genius. A useful corrective to the romantic mythology we all secretly enjoy. AWS posted a message about a newsworthy service disruption. Cloud infrastructure fails, as it periodically does, reminding us that “the cloud” is just someone else’s computer having a bad day. ### Like this: Like Loading...

A Tropical Mockingbird doing what it does best—hunting, moving, and ignoring me entirely.