| We are in the midst of migratory bird season in New York, the time when the city’s birders are at their most eagle-eyed. To honor the occasion, we’ve asked some of our staffers to describe their favorite feathery moments. Diego Lasarte, an editorial assistant, shares an urban-birding story. When I moved to coastal Maine, many years ago, after living all my life in a city, I figured the relocation would enable me, a lifelong ornithology enthusiast, to live out my wildest birding dreams. And, at first, it was glorious. Without even trying, I could see plovers running around the beach, while on an early-morning walk, or come across a roosting bald eagle, while kayaking down the coastline. I would wake up to the sound of a pileated woodpecker hacking at the pine tree outside my window, its bright-red crest unmistakable—no binoculars required. But I started to take it for granted. It wasn’t until I moved to New York City, a few years later, that my passion reignited. Waking up to the noise of a bus sighing to a stop outside my apartment was not the same, and I began to crave the sounds of birdsong. So, on weekends, I venture to the relative quiet of the outer boroughs, looking for whatever I can find. This ongoing search, often fruitless, has taught me that birding in the city can be birding at its best: patient and stoic, with fleeting moments of transcendence. | 
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