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

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

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

**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

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

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

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.

A late afternoon Gray Kingbird sighting in the Orchid Tree.

**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 quiet verandah morning turns memorable with a lifer St. Vincent Wren, flitting through bougainvillaea vines.

**Day Two · Monday 5 May 2025 · Dorsetshire Hill, St. Vincent** On the veranda, the sun had crept higher. The breeze was softer now, filtered through vines that reached across the edge of the roofline. I sat for a while, sipping the last of my coffee. Mum had stepped out by then, standing just behind me. We didn’t say much—just a few comments about the breeze, the stubborn vines, the soursop fruit that still hadn’t ripened. It was a kind of easy silence. Then, movement again—low this time, along the bougainvillaea. A small brown bird appeared, hopping from vine to vine, then pausing on a branch just above the stone wall. Compact, alert, and beautifully patterned. I brought the camera up instinctively. It was a St. Vincent Wren. St. Vincent Wren (Troglodytes musicus) · Monday 5 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/500 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 I’d seen wrens back in New Jersey—mostly House Wrens and Carolina Wrens—but this one had a deeper, more reddish tone, and a slight arch to its tail. Its eye was bright, framed by a soft pale brow line that gave it a permanently curious expression. For a moment, it turned fully toward me, one claw tucked slightly, wings loose at its sides. I clicked the shutter. St. Vincent Wrens are endemic to the island and favour forest edges, gardens, and wooded gullies—places just like this. Though small, they’re confident and busy birds, often found flitting through low branches and undergrowth, scanning for insects and spiders. I watched as it scanned the stems and twigs with quick, deliberate movements. Their diet is almost entirely insectivorous, and they forage close to the ground, probing crevices and bark. Even its posture said something—poised but never still for long. St. Vincent Wren (Troglodytes musicus) · Monday 5 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/500 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 It posed just long enough. Then off again, weaving through the branches, calling softly as it moved. A thin, warbling trill—like a note half-hummed under breath. Their song isn’t loud or showy, but it lingers. This one kept low, ducking under leaves, looping back briefly before vanishing down toward the banana trees. Quick. Fleeting. A second “lifer” for the day. I checked the time. Nearly 10. Ranchie would be there soon to take us down to Kingstown. I rushed to gather up my gear and stepped back inside, leaving the birds to their morning. ### Like this: Like Loading... Birds Wildlife Backyard BirdingBird PhotographyBirdingBirding St VincentCaribbean WildlifeDorsetshire HillEndemic BirdsGarden BirdsLesser AntillesSt Vincent WrenSt. Vincent and the GrenadinesTroglodytes musicus

The morning softened as I stepped onto the verandah, coffee in hand, light just catching the edges of the terracotta tiles. Before I could settle into the quiet, something green darted across the floor like a streak of living paint. A Saint Vincent Bush Anole—again. I’d seen them every morning since arriving, and each time they surprised me, as if the first. They were everywhere. On the walls, skittering across leaves, basking on the floor tiles. More common than squirrels in New Jersey, and just as curious. Their brilliant green flanks shimmered with a bluish iridescence that caught the morning sun like a signal flare. One paused long enough for me to photograph it, frozen mid-step with limbs splayed wide, a tiny sentinel of the veranda. I never saw them fight or posture—just a scurry here, a pause there, a life lived in quick bursts between shade and heat. The regularity of their presence gave them the quality of house spirits, flickering through the morning stillness. I made my way down the steps to the lawn below the veranda. That’s where the life really was—bustling and quick. Clinging to the lichen-splotched wall bordering the yard, was a Brown Anole—darker, earth-toned, rougher around the edges. It watched me with angular suspicion before darting behind a bougainvillaea stem. I snapped a few frames. Its pattern, while less brilliant than its cousin’s, was richly detailed—bands and mottles, tail nearly the length of its body. This species, introduced to the Caribbean from Cuba and the Bahamas, has made itself thoroughly at home, adapting quickly to urban edges and garden walls. Opportunistic insectivores, they’ll take whatever small prey they can catch, including ants, spiders, and even smaller lizards. Brown Anole (Anolis sagrei) · Monday 5 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 640 · 1/500 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 Just then, a flicker of movement higher up on the wall. I turned and caught my breath—a bird, compact and olive-brown, perched like a punctuation mark atop the concrete. A Black-faced Grassquit. A lifer. She—judging by her overall duller plumage—hopped twice, then froze, head cocked, feathers fluffed slightly against the breeze. It was my best look yet. Her plumage was subtle but not plain, a nuanced blend of olive and ash, with dark lores and a firm, seed-cracking bill. She turned her head again and dropped onto the wall, pecking at invisible seeds or insects. And then she was gone—replaced moments later by another. One after another, Grassquits came and went, each one pausing briefly to forage or scout from the ledge. It was like a quiet relay, a rhythm of arrivals and departures on that sunlit stretch of concrete. Some were plainer, others hinted at the darker tones of the males, but all shared that same alert posture, that same flick of energy wrapped in feathers. Grassquits are granivores primarily, but they’ll happily take the odd invertebrate. Native to the region, they are a familiar feature in grassy clearings and gardens, where they forage close to the ground or perch low to sing. I never saw a male that morning—their jet-black faces and sharper contrasts are hard to miss—but the females had their own quiet charisma. More studied, less flashy, but no less captivating. I lingered for a while longer, soaking in the moment. Black-faced Grassquit (Melanospiza bicolor) · Monday 5 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 160 · 1/1000 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 405.6 mm · f/8.0 She gave me a brief but riveting performance—head tilts, cautious hops, a fluttering half-jump before vanishing below the wall. I didn’t see her mate, though the males wear a darker, more striking plumage: jet-black faces, sharper contrast, bold lines. This female had her own quiet charisma, more studied, less flashy, but no less captivating. I lingered for a while longer, soaking in the moment. Eventually, I made my way back up to the veranda. No sooner had I sat down than a flash of movement in the soursop tree caught my attention. A Lesser Antillean Bullfinch had flown into the branches, and it was not shy about letting me know. It chirped and chattered excitedly, almost as if scolding me. Its posture was upright and defensive, wings half-lifted. At the time, I just laughed—but later, I realised there was likely a nest tucked somewhere in the leaves. Its behaviour made perfect sense in hindsight. ### Like this: Like Loading... Birds Wildlife Anole LizardBackyard BirdingBirding LiferBlack-faced GrassquitBrown AnoleBush AnoleCaribbean BirdsDorsetshire HillGarden WildlifeMorning EncounterNative BirdsSaint VincentSaint Vincent WildlifeSmall WondersTropical GardenTropical LizardsVerandah

I’d never seen Eared Doves before, but they felt oddly familiar—like Mourning Doves.

I stepped out onto the verandah with my camera gear just after sunrise, drawn by the hush of the morning. The south-facing lawn was still in soft shadow, the grass damp with dew. I spotted some movement—quick flicks of brown low to the ground. Black-faced Grassquits, I thought. Another lifer. I managed a few shots before they scattered. I crossed over to the north side of the house. The light there was gentler—cool, bluish, still holding the last breath of night. That’s where I found them: half a dozen Eared Doves, plodding across the lawn with that slow, nodding walk they have. Heads down, beaks brushing the grass. Foraging—seeds, probably. Maybe grasses or fallen trumpet flowers carried by the wind. One stood slightly apart, upright and watchful, while the others moved as if tugged along by the earth itself. One in particular seemed bossy, chasing the others across the lawn and sometimes briefly into the air. Eared Dove (Zenaida auriculata) · Monday 5 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 2500 · 1/500 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 Since I couldn’t tell them apart, I gave them all the same name: Steve. It started half as a joke to myself, but it stuck. For the rest of the trip, every dove I saw became Steve. Even my mum adopted the name—pointing out a bird on the verandah one afternoon with a casual, “Steve is back.” At a glance, they reminded me of the Mourning Doves I know from New Jersey—similar in size, same sleek body lines. But when I zoomed in through the lens, they felt different. Heavier. More grounded. Mourning Doves always look a little ethereal to me, like they’re just about to lift off. These Eared Doves had more weight to them—richer tones, pinkish legs, and that small, dark crescent behind the eye that gives them their name. They looked like doves built for the tropics. They’re common across much of South America and the Caribbean, but I don’t remember them from childhood. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe they weren’t here. Either way, they were new to me—another lifer—and the thrill of that settled in gently, without the rush. Eared Dove (Zenaida auriculata) · Monday 5 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 5000 · 1/500 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 They’re vocal birds, usually—soft, mournful coos repeated again and again. But this morning, they were quiet. Just the occasional wingbeat as one shifted position or was startled by something I couldn’t see. I photographed them slowly, carefully. They didn’t seem bothered. It felt like I’d wandered into _their_ hour, not the other way around. Eventually, I went back inside to make coffee. But I’d already had what I came for. ### Like this: Like Loading... Birds Wildlife BirdingCaribbean BirdsDorsetshire HillEared DoveLesser AntillesLifer BirdSt VincentTropical BirdsZenaida auriculata

A Caribbean Elaenia (Elaenia martinica) appeared just before sunset on my first day home in St. Vincent.

A fleeting encounter with the Green-throated Carib (Eulampis holosericeus) at dusk.

It came and went before I had a chance to react. I was still thinking about the Caribbean Elaenia I had just seen while sitting on the veranda. The Green-throated Carib (_Eulampis holosericeus_) zipped past the western edge of the garden—a silent shimmer against the grey-blue sky. No call, no chirp. Just the faint electric hum of wings, like a question left hanging. I’d missed the shot. I lowered the camera and waited. Minutes passed. Then, a flicker—there it was again, darting among the Nerium oleander blossoms at the corner of the yard. I switched the Fuji X-T3 to high-speed burst, pushed the shutter, fought for focus in the dimming light. The carib was quick, elusive, its iridescence catching the dusk and vanishing just as fast. Out of a dozen frames, two were usable. Green-throated Carib (Eulampis holosericeus) near Oleander (Nerium oleander) · Sunday 4 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 320 · 1/950 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 284.2 mm · f/6.4 This wasn’t my only sighting. The carib returned every morning during breakfast, and again at dusk while I ate dinner on the verandah. I could almost set my watch by it. But photographing it? That was another matter entirely. Hummingbirds are magic in motion—hard to pin down, all glint and flutter. The Green-throated Carib is one of the larger species found in the Lesser Antilles, with a deep emerald body, bluish wings, and a gently decurved bill designed for sipping nectar from curved blossoms. It prefers forest edges, gardens, and scrubland—habitats exactly like the one I was sitting in. Unlike the Ruby-throated Hummingbird back in New Jersey, which hovers daintily and often holds still mid-air, the carib moves with more force. It zooms in, feeds fast, and vanishes. It doesn’t hover for long or pose obligingly on a branch. It’s bold, but not showy. Territorial, but not theatrical. It made me work for it. Still, that flash of green in the garden was a fitting end to the first day. ### Like this: Like Loading... Birds Nature Travel Wildlife Backyard BirdingBirdingBirding LiferBirds of the CaribbeanCaribbeanCaribbean BirdsDorsetshire HillEulampis holosericeusGreen-throated CaribHummingbirdIsland BirdsLesser AntillesSt VincentSt. Vincent and the GrenadinesTropical BirdingTropical Birds

Three new lifers—Eared Doves, Gray Kingbirds, and a Scaly-naped Pigeon—greeted me during a slow walk through the garden on Day One in St. Vincent.