Rather than maintain a separate blog here, future reflections, observations, and lessons emerging from this landscape will be shared through Field Notes on rgdodson.com, where they naturally connect to my broader writing, teaching, and stewardship work.
I hope you will follow along on my efforts and updates on Field Notes and more importantly I hope you will start you own home-based conservation landscape management project.
This is one of those times of year when the backyard feels
almost empty during the day.
Most of the birds that filled the air and hedgerows just
weeks ago have moved on—following ancient migratory paths south toward warmer
habitats and more reliable food sources. At the same time, some more northern
species have drifted into our region, pushed south by even harsher conditions
farther north. But they are far harder to see right now. Bitter cold and
constant wind keep activity low, and birds that are present are conserving
energy, staying sheltered, and moving quietly through cover.
If you judged the landscape only by daytime sightings, you
might think very little is happening.
But the cameras tell a different story.
After dark, the backyard comes alive in ways we rarely
witness directly. Our trail and security cameras continue to capture images
that remind us just how active this landscape remains, even in the heart of
winter.
White-tailed deer are everywhere. Their numbers are, frankly, overwhelming—an unmistakable sign of how adaptable they are and how altered landscapes often favor large generalist species. They move confidently through the snow, following familiar routes between the adjoining farm field and the edges of our restoration area.
More striking still are the coyotes.
Recent nighttime images captured a clear view of three
coyotes moving together across the snow. What stands out isn’t just their
presence—it’s how they are moving.
The images show unmistakable use of a habitat corridor: a
narrow strip connecting the open farm field with the shorter-grass area along
our side yard. Even in winter, even under harsh conditions, these animals are
using predictable pathways that offer cover, visibility, and efficient travel.
This is exactly why small landscape decisions matter.
When we talk about habitat restoration, it’s easy to focus
on flowers, birds, and pollinators. But winter strips away the color and leaves
behind structure—and structure is what wildlife depends on year-round.
Shrub lines.
Unmowed edges.
Transition zones between land uses.
These are not messy leftovers. They are functioning
corridors that allow wildlife to move safely across a fragmented landscape. The
coyotes don’t need lush vegetation right now; they need continuity. A way
through.
What we’re seeing on the cameras is proof that even modest
restoration efforts can have real, measurable effects—especially when they
connect one habitat type to another.
It isn’t only large mammals that leave their stories behind
in winter.
On the surface of the snow, delicate tracks tell another,
quieter story. Thin lines and looping paths—likely made by a field mouse or
vole—appear briefly on top of the snow before disappearing again. These small
mammals spend much of the winter moving through tunnels beneath the snowpack,
where temperatures are more stable and food is easier to find. Every so often,
they emerge, crossing open ground quickly before dropping back into cover.
It’s easy to miss these signs if you’re not looking for them. But they are reminders that even in the harshest conditions, life persists—often unseen, often unnoticed.
What’s especially meaningful is that these tracks appear
within and alongside our backyard restoration area. The same features that help
coyotes move across the landscape—edges, cover, and transition zones—also help
small mammals survive winter. Shrubs, grasses, and undisturbed ground create
insulation, protection from wind, and escape routes from predators.
Taken together, the evidence is clear.
Birds may be scarce right now. The cold may silence much of
the landscape. But this place is far from empty.
From tiny rodents skimming across the snow, to deer moving
in overwhelming numbers, to coyotes traveling established corridors under cover
of darkness, winter reveals how wildlife actually uses the land when survival
is the only priority.
This is why stewardship is not a seasonal activity.
What we allow to grow, what we leave undisturbed, and how we
connect pieces of the landscape matters every day of the year—even when the
world looks quiet and frozen.
At the Dodson Bird Observatory, winter is a reminder to slow down, look closer, and let the land show us what’s really happening.
For many years, like millions of other people, I put out bird feeders. I enjoyed watching chickadees, cardinals, nuthatches, and woodpeckers come and go, especially during the winter months. Feeders can be a wonderful way to introduce people—especially children—to birds and to nature.
But for the past two years, I have made a conscious decision not to put out bird feeders at the Dodson Bird Observatory.
That decision wasn’t made lightly, and it wasn’t because I stopped caring about birds. In fact, it was made because I care about them more—and because my understanding of stewardship has continued to evolve.
I recently read an article published by the National Wildlife Federation titled “Who Really Benefits from Bird Feeders?” It raised an important and sometimes uncomfortable question:
Are bird feeders primarily benefiting birds—or are they mostly benefiting us?
That question lingered with me because it aligned with concerns I had already been wrestling with, particularly around avian influenza (bird flu) and the unintended consequences of concentrating birds in small areas.
Bird feeders, by their very nature, bring birds together—often species that wouldn’t normally congregate so closely in the wild. When food is concentrated, birds linger longer, interact more frequently, and share surfaces.
During periods when bird flu is present in wild populations, this clustering can increase the risk of disease transmission. While feeders are not the sole cause of avian flu, they can act as amplifiers, especially when not cleaned frequently or when birds are stressed.
Rather than trying to manage that risk through constant cleaning and monitoring, I chose a simpler path: step back and remove the attractant altogether.
What I didn’t do was abandon birds.
Instead, I doubled down on something I believe is ultimately far more important: creating and protecting habitat.
At the Dodson Bird Observatory, that has meant:
Letting portions of the landscape grow naturally
Encouraging native vegetation
Reducing mowing
Allowing seed heads, leaf litter, and brushy edges to remain
Accepting a landscape that looks a little messier—but functions a lot better
This approach supports birds year-round, not just when seed is available. It provides:
Natural food sources
Shelter from predators and weather
Nesting opportunities
Insects for breeding season protein
Most importantly, it allows birds to behave more like birds.
One of the quieter benefits of stepping away from feeders is that it has changed how I observe birds.
Instead of waiting for them to come to a feeder on my schedule, I watch:
Where they choose to forage
How they move through the landscape
Which plants they rely on
How seasonal changes affect their presence
In many ways, it has made birdwatching more interesting—and more honest.
I want to be clear: this is not a declaration that bird feeders are bad or that people should feel guilty for using them.
Feeders can:
Spark curiosity and care for nature
Help birds during extreme weather events
Provide accessibility for people who can’t create habitat
But they should be seen as a tool, not a substitute for habitat.
If we truly care about birds, the long-term solution isn’t more seed—it’s more functioning ecosystems, even if they start in our own backyards.
My decision to stop using bird feeders was a personal stewardship choice, shaped by concern, observation, and a desire to do less to nature and more for it.
At the Dodson Bird Observatory, the goal isn’t to attract birds—it’s to give them a place where they can thrive on their own terms.
Sometimes, the most responsible action isn’t adding something new.
Sometimes, it’s knowing when to step aside.
Reflections from the Dodson Bird Observatory
It was early morning, the kind of quiet time when the fog still clings to the meadow and the air smells faintly of wet leaves. I looked at the edge of my side yard, looking out across the mix of pasture, shrubs, and woodlot that make up the Dodson Bird Observatory. I’ve done this countless times, usually greeted by the cheerful “chick-a-dee-dee-dee” of a Black-capped Chickadee.
But lately, that sound has been missing.
For years, chickadees have been among the most dependable companions of winter in upstate New York. They flit through the branches like tiny balls of energy, always curious, always busy. Yet over the past few winters, I’ve seen—and heard—fewer of them. At first, I thought maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention. Then I began to wonder if something larger was going on.
Across the Northeast, research suggests that Black-capped Chickadee populations are showing a quiet but steady decline. They’re not vanishing, but the trend lines from eBird and long-term monitoring projects hint at a gradual drop in numbers. In some areas, warmer winters are allowing the southern cousin of our familiar bird—the Carolina Chickadee—to move north. Where the two species meet, they sometimes hybridize, and the Black-caps slowly give way.
It’s one of those subtle signals of a changing climate—barely noticeable at first, but unmistakable when you take the long view.
For the past couple of winters, I’ve chosen not to put out bird feeders. That surprises some folks, especially since I’ve been an active birder and conservationist all my life. My reason is simple: I’ve grown increasingly concerned about how easily disease can spread when birds crowd together. We’ve seen outbreaks of salmonella and other illnesses tied directly to feeders, especially during mild winters when birds are already stressed.
The truth is, most birds don’t need feeders. Nature provides—if we let her. Feeders are, in many ways, for people. They let us enjoy close encounters with wildlife, and that’s not a bad thing. But when bird feeding becomes a substitute for maintaining natural habitat, we’ve missed the point.
And of course, the bird-feeding industry benefits from our good intentions. There’s a lot of money in seed blends and fancy feeder designs. Sometimes, I think the marketing around bird feeding has outpaced the ecological understanding behind it.
At the Dodson Bird Observatory, I’ve shifted my focus toward creating a landscape that feeds the birds naturally. I’ve let part of my backyard go back to native vegetation and mowed winding paths through it. I’ve planted native shrubs, left seed heads standing through winter, and kept a few dead snags upright for cavity nesters.
When snow falls, I watch woodpeckers, nuthatches, and the occasional wren searching for insects and seeds on their own—without my interference. Every once in a while, a chickadee shows up too, and that simple visit feels earned, not purchased.
I’ve come to see that feeding birds isn’t the same as helping them. What truly helps is restoring and protecting the natural systems they rely on—habitat diversity, healthy forests, clean water, and native plants.
So these days, instead of refilling feeders, I fill notebooks. I note what species appear, when they arrive, and how they behave. I’m not feeding the birds—I’m learning from them.
Maybe the Black-capped Chickadees will return in greater numbers next year. Maybe the rhythms of weather and habitat will shift again in their favor. Either way, I’ll keep tending to the land and listening. Their absence reminds me that conservation isn’t about control—it’s about paying attention and creating the conditions where life can flourish on its own terms.
When I finally hear that familiar “chick-a-dee-dee-dee” again, it’ll be the sweetest sound of all.
Late summer evenings in my backyard are filled with motion—darts, dives, swoops, and glides. The stars of the show? Barn Swallows.
Every evening, just as the sun begins its descent, dozens of these agile flyers take to the air over the half-acre I’ve allowed to rewild—an area once mowed, now thriving with native grasses and wildflowers—and the cornfield that borders it. They trace invisible arcs across the sky, chasing down insects with a precision honed by evolution and necessity. It’s a mesmerizing performance and one I never grow tired of watching.
But who are these winged acrobats, really?
The Barn Swallow (Hirundo rustica) is one of the most widespread and easily recognized birds in North America. With their deeply forked tails, sleek blue-black backs, cinnamon-colored throats and bellies, and fluid, almost carefree flight, they’re built for life on the wing. Barn Swallows are true aerialists—rarely seen walking or hopping on the ground. They spend most of their waking hours in the air, feeding on flying insects and covering astonishing distances as they go.
These birds are migratory, arriving in the Northeast U.S. in spring after wintering in Central and South America. They build their nests from mud—often under eaves, bridges, or, true to their name, inside barns. I haven’t found any of their nests on my property yet, but it’s clear they’ve made the open skies above it part of their summer hunting grounds.
Barn Swallows are a remarkable example of how wildlife can adapt to human-altered environments. Historically, they nested in caves and cliff faces, but with the rise of agriculture and buildings, they shifted to man-made structures. In return, they offer a service we often overlook: insect control.
Each swallow can eat hundreds of flying insects a day—mosquitoes, flies, beetles, and more. In an area like mine, bordered by open fields and recovering native habitat, the Barn Swallows are both graceful and practical. They’re helping to keep insect populations in balance naturally—no pesticides needed.
The cornfield next to my rewilded plot likely supports a large population of insects, some of them agricultural pests. The taller flowering plants in the rewilded area draw pollinators—and also some insects the swallows enjoy. Together, these neighboring habitats create a kind of buffet line for these birds, and they repay the landscape by keeping it ecologically healthier.
Watching Barn Swallows reminds me of the deeper interconnections that exist in nature—how one species can stitch together pieces of the landscape. They are messengers of a functioning ecosystem, signaling that insect life is plentiful and the skies are clean enough to support their aerial feeding lifestyle.
But their numbers have declined in many areas, largely due to loss of nesting sites and pesticide use, which reduces insect availability. That’s one reason I feel so encouraged when I see them zigzagging above my rewilded plot. It’s proof that even modest changes—like letting half an acre return to wild vegetation—can make a difference.
As I stand at the edge of my rewilded patch at dusk, the Barn Swallows are all around me, silhouetted against the fading sky. They’re here not because I invited them, but because I gave them reason to come. And in doing so, they’ve given me a gift in return: a daily aerial ballet and a reminder that nature responds when we make space for it.
If you’re considering rewilding even a small part of your yard or property, let this be encouragement: the swallows might come.
Dodson Bird Observatory
Just beyond the edge of our backyard, past the naturalized fencerow I’ve been letting rewild, lies an 80-acre field that has, for years, been harvested for hay a couple of times each season. It’s a familiar landscape—one I’ve observed closely as part of my ongoing birdwatching and habitat monitoring here at the Dodson Bird Observatory.
That field, while managed for production, has still supported a fair amount of biodiversity. Bobolinks, in particular, have been regular summer visitors—nesting low in the grasses, raising young, and filling the mornings with their bubbly, warbling songs. Other grassland birds, butterflies, and small mammals made regular use of the open space as well.
But this year, something changed.
The grass was harvested unusually early, and for the first time in years, the field was planted in corn.
At this point, I don’t know if it’s sweet corn or field corn. I believe the landowner leased it out to a prominent local farmer, but I can’t say for certain. And really, that’s not the point.
The point is: the field has changed. And with it, so has its value as habitat.
Corn, unlike hayfields or pastures, offers very little for species like the Bobolink. Its dense rows and monoculture structure leave no room for nesting or foraging for many of the field-dwelling birds I’ve come to associate with that landscape. So this year, I expect those birds will be absent—or at best, displaced to somewhere less ideal.
As someone who supports both family farming and biodiversity, I feel a bit torn. I don’t fault the landowner or the farmer. This land, like most land in America, is working land. People need to make a living. And supporting local food systems—especially when tied to family-scale agriculture—is something I deeply believe in.
But I also believe in the quiet value of observing.
I’m not the manager of that field. I’m simply its neighbor. A witness to its seasonal rhythms and long memory.
My small contribution this year is the rewilded area in our backyard—about half an acre, slowly returning to native vegetation, laced with meandering paths and seeded with wildflowers. It borders that fencerow and the now-planted cornfield. And perhaps, just perhaps, it will serve as a patch of refuge, a buffer, or a stepping stone in the broader neighborhood landscape.
This is what I call neighborhood conservation—paying attention to the land you live near, not just the land you own. Finding small ways to support life, even if the larger picture shifts.
For now, I’ll keep my eyes open. I’ll keep my notes. And I’ll let the field speak for itself.
Early this morning, before the eastern horizon was painted
with first light, a motion-triggered thermal camera at the edge of our backyard
pollinator meadow captured a quiet yet powerful scene. On the near side of
the rewilded fence row—a bobcat, low to the ground, moving with deliberate
grace. Just beyond the fence, in the managed grassland of the adjoining 80-acre
hayfield, stood a white-tailed deer, still and alert, separated only by a thin
ribbon of habitat we’ve been restoring over the past year.
These two animals—so
different in form and behavior—met in the same moment, drawn by the very
landscape we’ve been working to reimagine.
The fence row, once trimmed and
tamed, is now being allowed to revert to a more natural state. Tall native
grasses, goldenrod, elderberry, and saplings are slowly reclaiming space. A
buffer strip, yes—but also a lifeline. A corridor. A crossroads.
When we began rewilding this strip of land, we did it
with pollinators in mind—bees, butterflies, moths. But nature doesn’t operate
in isolation. What benefits the insects also benefits the birds. What benefits
do the birds draw from the small mammals? And what draws the mice and
rabbits will eventually attract the quiet-footed predators, such as the bobcat.
The image was brief. But it tells
a story of ecological restoration already at work. It reminds us that even
small patches of rewilded habitat can have outsized importance—serving as
shelter, transit routes, or feeding grounds for wildlife we might never see
with our own eyes.
This isn’t just about one bobcat
or one deer. It’s about creating opportunities—for life to find its way back,
and for us to witness, just now and then, what that return looks like.
I’ll be saving this image for the
records, but more than that, I’m holding onto the message it carries: rewilding
works. Even in the quiet corners of our backyards.
—Ron Dodson
Dodson’s Bird Observatory
Dodson’s Bird Observatory is an ongoing, home-based conservation landscape management project — from my backyard to a few hundred acres of ...
