Six Years of Wings

A whole world in one pond: prinias walking on lotus stems like tightrope dancers, a bittern creeping through the shadows, little grebes diving, and a pond heron strutting across the lily pads. Six years ago I would have walked past this pond. Now I know its entire cast.

The male flashed his rusty-red tail every time he landed, like signing his name. The female watched him from her own rock, not impressed at all. I was much more impressed than she was.

Spring in the forest: the magpie came down to drink by the mossy stones. Red bill, black head, blue tail with white tips — a colour combination no designer would dare to use. Nature dares. And a shy brown friend kept to the shadows, refusing to be named.

I met 'my' blue bird again this spring, perched on the red rocks like it owned them. Same impossible blue. Same fast heartbeat — mine, not the bird's. Some birds become old friends, and this one definitely is.

Waxwings come south only in some winters, like guests who don't visit often. When they landed on the plum trees, the bare branches suddenly looked like they were flowering in December. And one mystery orange-bellied friend joined them — if you know who it is, tell me.

Just 'common birds', as my teacher calls them — a shrike in the golden light, a woodpecker on the trunk, a pipit on the ground. There are no boring birds, only days we forget to look.

This dark pigeon lives only in coastal forests, and it is really hard to find. We waited near the fruit trees from dawn. When it finally slid out of the shadow — dark, silent, rare — I understood that some birds are earned, not taken.

A bird wearing a crown, working like a farmer — probing the wet grass for food all morning. When it is surprised, the crest opens like a fan. I tried to make it surprised (quietly, of course). It refused to be surprised. Professional.

A summer evening at home: a cicada rested on the pumpkin and on my potted plant, wings like glass. Even in the city, the wild comes to visit — if you keep your eyes open.

I hid by a mountain stream for two hours, mosquitoes choosing me as their dinner. Then this magpie jumped into the water and took a bath like a king washing his long blue robe. The splash was worth every bite. Its smaller bamboo neighbours refused to tell me their names.

In the golden wheat field, these tiny birds kept popping up and down like popcorn, singing their one loud note again and again. Nearly impossible to photograph — which is exactly why I stayed three hours.

A rare winter visitor from Japan. Early morning, frost on the logs, nobody else in the forest — just this small orange bird singing to itself. Some encounters feel like secrets, and I got to keep this one.

I ended the year in the wetland with coots and shovelers instead of at a party. A coot puffed up its feathers like an angry black ball, and the shovelers swept the water with their huge bills. Honestly — best New Year's Eve I've had.

This thrush lives among ancient carved Buddha statues, standing calmly under their stone smiles like a little monk in a blue-grey robe. Nature and history in one frame — my teacher says this photo is 'a whole essay'.

Same lake, same gulls, another December. This time I stayed until sunset and caught the old sails behind the flying birds. My city is beautiful in winter too — you just need to stand in the wind long enough.

A friend told me there was a 'blue bird' near the lake. I didn't believe any bird could really be this colour until I saw it — like a drop of the sky decided to grow feathers. I forgot the cold completely.

Red legs, black wings, white body — this bird looks designed by an artist who was showing off. Its legs are so long that walking through the deep green duckweed looked like walking on a floating mirror. A little egret came to check on the neighbours.

Lapwings crossed the blue sky with slow, heavy wingbeats, calling the whole time. My favourite frame was accidental: on the ground below, a tiny prinia stood right next to a lapwing — the smallest neighbour of the biggest bird in the wetland.

My biology teacher found this hawk first — she usually does. We stood under the leaves while it looked down at us, completely calm, as if we were the exhibition and it was the visitor.

This elegant hawk can stop completely in the air — just floating there, red eyes down, searching the grass. It looks like a kite tied to the sky by an invisible string. Below, in the low light, a little prinia glowed like gold.

A rare visitor in our city. Its blue throat is like someone cut a small piece of sky and sewed it on. I only saw it for five minutes before it disappeared into the reeds — but five minutes was enough to make my whole week.

A cold but sunny morning. The long-tailed bushtit posed for a close-up, and a Pallas's leaf warbler — no bigger than a ping-pong ball — jumped through the branches nearby. Winter looks empty, but look again.

These tiny birds weigh less than a coin. Ten of them exploded into one wintersweet tree, eating and arguing, and I honestly didn't know where to point my camera first. Then one flew up to the red berries, wings open, and the noise of the whole flock disappeared.

Winter gulls on the lake, thousands of them. They came so close that I could hear their wings cutting the air. When one landed with its wings wide open, the whole grey lake seemed to applaud.

The kingfisher is my favourite bird, and the first photo here is the photo of my six years. I waited four hours in the cold wind by the river. Then it exploded out of the water with a fish and a crown of water drops. Four hours became nothing in half a second.

A small bird standing on a dry flower, facing the wind, like a tiny guard of the autumn field. The male let me come quite close. Maybe he was also enjoying the last warm days before winter.

I never found out this bird's name. But that evening the sky was impossibly blue, it sat on the highest empty branch and sang, and the whole field was quiet. Some birds you identify; some birds you just remember.

Its tail is longer than its whole body. When it flew through the dark forest, the long rusty ribbon followed behind like it was flying in slow motion. I forgot to check my settings and just watched. Luckily the camera was faster than my brain.

A woodpecker family was feeding their babies inside this old tree. The parents flew back and forth all morning, wings open like small papers in the wind. Love, I decided, looks the same in every species.

April brings the travellers. These buntings (I think — they move too fast!) rested in the fresh green leaves, a white-eye joined them for the berries, and one flashed red wings as it flew away. Spring birding is fast, messy, and wonderful.

Smaller than my palm, and it never stops moving — up the trunk, down the branch, sideways, like a ping-pong ball with wings. Finding one and focusing on it is a small victory every single time.

I waited three hours for this hunter. When it finally dived and flew up with its prey, my hands were shaking too much — but the camera didn't mind. This was the first time I understood why people say patience is a skill, not a virtue.

It looks painted: yellow belly, black back, white eyebrows. It had one favourite branch — it flew out, caught a fly, and came back to the exact same twig, again and again, like it was doing rehearsals just for me. A white-eye came to watch the show too.

A field journal should be honest: some afternoons the birds hide, and the small things step forward. Two ladybugs woke up in the spring grass, and I photographed them anyway. Not every entry needs feathers.

Red bill, yellow throat, olive wings with orange — my biology teacher says this bird has 'too many colours for one small body'. In Chinese its name means the lovebird, because they always appear in pairs. This one was showing off its wings like a magician showing an empty hand.

Spring arrived with the cherry flowers. The white-eyes were so busy drinking nectar that they hung upside down like small green fruits. When the wind moved the branches, everything swung together — flowers, birds, and my camera.

Two grebes danced in front of us, rising from the water and shaking their heads. Then their necks touched and made a perfect heart. Nobody around said a word. This is still one of my favourite moments in six years.

Everything in December is grey, and then this small bird appears — blue head, orange sides, like a small fire in the winter woods. I stood in the cold for a long time just to keep it in my viewfinder.

A cold morning by the stream. The wagtail kept shaking its little tail, up and down, like it was dancing to music only it could hear. Its reflection finished the picture for me.

A piece of sunlight with wings. We waited a whole summer afternoon under the tree, and when it finally showed itself, the yellow was brighter than I remembered yellow could be.

My first real birding photos. This waterhen ran across the lake surface, flapping its wings like it was late for a meeting. I didn't even know its name then — I just knew I wanted to see more.