Steve Braunias on the definition of happiness.
To watch a bird, closely and patiently, observing its size, its colouring, its behaviour, is a very particular and exact form of happiness. It does you good. It doesn't do the bird any good but you can't have everything. It gets you outside. It concentrates the mind; it fills it with feathers, gives it flight.
To watch a bird is to make a scientific or poetic communion not just with the bird but with everyone who has ever watched a bird. Sometimes when I'm watching a bird I'm thinking of some of the greatest birdwatchers in New Zealand ornithology – people such as Geoff Moon, author of really wonderful books of bird photography; and Graham Turbott, a former director of the Auckland Museum. Moon filled a pond with fish at his home in Titirangi and took time-lapse photos of kingfishers snatching their prey; Turbott was despatched to the subantarctic islands during World War II to keep an eye on potential naval threats to New Zealand but there was no threat and as such, nothing to see, so he got in a lot of very good birdwatching. I met them in their final years. They still had such sharp eyesight.
To watch a bird is also to listen. There is a shocking story about the mynah's voice in the June 1962 issue of New Zealand bird journal, Notornis. A correspondent writes of milking cows on Tiri Tiri island one morning: "I heard a bird singing and calling on the watch-tower. I took this to be a starling but, on getting up there to have a look, I saw that it was a mynah. The bird moved along the roof, stopped and looked into the spouting, at the same time calling like a starling ... Suddenly it disappeared into the spouting. Then its head appeared and it was seen to drop a small object. This happened three times ... I went over and found three young starlings a few days old, all dead." God almighty. Lured to their death by a talented mimic.
To watch a bird is to watch for death. New Zealand birders meet on west coast beaches at this time of year to conduct beach patrols: they look for dead seabirds, washed up on the shore in winter storms. There are some pretty rare and exciting finds to be had – birds from faraway lands, blown off-course, separated, lost, doomed. Their corpses litter our Tasman coast. This, too, brings happiness.