This is not traditional nature writing.

It’s not a field guide, though you may find records.

It’s not a personal essay, though memory threads through every entry. It isn’t scientific, in the formal sense—yet everything here is grounded in attention, documentation, and truth.

 

This is a form I’ve come to think of as intimate fieldwork:

A blend of ecological observation, emotional presence, and literary reflection.

 

Each post begins with what’s real—species, location, weather, behaviour. But the record is only the surface. Beneath it, you’ll find what the sighting stirred: memory, grief, the sleepless thoughts that rise just before first light, the quiet return of wonder. These are field notes written with a lens in one hand and binoculars in the other.

 

I write in the margins between science and story.

Because some species can only be recognised by the way they made you feel.

 

This is a space for the quiet things:

• Birds rarely seen

• Feelings rarely named

• Moments rarely recorded, because no one thought they mattered

 

If you’ve ever felt a subtle pull to understand the living world more deeply--

not just to see it, but to stand with it for a moment longer-

you’re already part of this story.