By Ron Dodson
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.
