In the past few days I've perused the Sibley Bird Book borrowed from the library. All the identifiable varieties of sparrows, oh my, and how much better Sibley does with sparrows than the Audubon books I own.

Yet, this morning the redwing blackbirds sang to me of summer. The indigo bunting flashed by in it's iridescent-- well, indigo-- feathers. The pileated woodpecker tapped such rapid, headache-reminder staccato, it's crown so red, it's tidy body suit so black and white. 

The book is wonderful, highly informative, communicating information, sharing names and identifiers I otherwise wouldn't know. And the direct experience is irreplaceable. I am reminded again how improbable the sharing between you inside your skin and me inside mine.