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Our first full day in Florida my wife and I got up in the gray dawn to explore. At a nearby dock we saw our first bird of the new year, a female belted kingfisher. It was on a post in the water, its overly large blackish head, the dagger bill which it uses to catch fish, and the rust breast clearly all visible. Hey babe, you didn't party last night and you're up early looking for breakfast for your family?

There's something next to a mourning dove on a wire. It's a green parakeet with an ivory colored bill and some slate blue peeping out from its closed wings. Don't let the diminutive "parakeet" fool you, this bird is almost a foot long. There are five of them on that wire. Fearful that they will fly and I won't be able to identify them, I drink in every detail. But they aren't going anywhere, as they are feeding, and do so with style. One holds a small tree fruit in a small upturned charcoal gray claw, looking at it with the curiosity of a tame animal and the bored aplomb of a 1920's flapper. Later I am able to identify the birds as monk parakeets. These birds originally are from Argentina and have gone as far west as Oklahoma and have established colonies in Connecticut, Brooklyn and a few have been seen on eastern Long Island as well.

On the beach we find firm, white sand with long, ropy vines growing on the surface. Nearby are large plants with red, orange and purple leaves. The scene is a theatrical setting for some small, fast-flying birds that come low over the sands, and land by the plants and on some reeds, tails twitching. They don't stop moving, nor stay long, always alert and looking around. These little birds, called palm warblers, are in their dull winter plumage but that camouflage won't fool a predator raptor or pigeon looking for a meal. Fortunately no predators are up and around the beach this morning, so the warblers continue looking for their breakfast of choice, small beetles, caterpillars, grasshoppers as well as small fruits and seeds.

We are watching a feeding bird from ringside seats in a deserted outdoor restaurant in a nearby shopping plaza, which overlooks an estuary of Sarasota Bay. On a small island under a mangrove tree, standing still as a statue is one of the last things a fish wants to see, a great egret. This white bird with black legs and feet that we are watching, stands 39-inches. It has a long, dagger yellow bill that can be thrust into the water in a flash. Rain has started to fall and the egret appears to be like us, looking for cover. We may need a restaurant roof overhead, but the egret has natural protection. It's hunched neck is misleading as the egret suddenly straightens the neck thrusting its bill into the water. Snap, snap, snap into the water goes the bill, three times. Each time the egret comes up with a wriggling fish, easily dispatching them into an increasingly less empty stomach. The last time it shakes its head sideward as if to say "ummm, good."

This bird is in breeding plumage and I'm fascinated by these breeding feathers which trail down the sides of its body. Since last winter I've wanted a good look at these birds' exotic breeding plumes. This is the moment. I get up to get a closer look under a tree. Through binoculars I see that some of the breeding plumes appear to be thicker than others. Interesting. The rain is now hard. Plop, it's hitting my head; splat, splat on my windbreaker; drops are running down my glasses and my binoculars are too wet to use. I can see thin lines of raindrops falling and endless ripples in the dark water. I linger but good sense gets the better of my fascination and I retreat to the restaurant.

Later that afternoon in our new digs, my wife announces that we have a visitor at our back screen door. It is a great blue heron and minutes later, after the heron leaves, a great egret arrives. Both birds were in breeding plumage and couldn't have been closer to the screen. They were looking for a meal, which is something I won't give them as they are wild birds and will lose some of their skill and stealth if they are routinely given handouts. Each time one comes, I stand perfectly still and softly talk to it. They either have endless patience or are as curious about me as I am about them. Since that first day, one or the other has come almost every afternoon, sometimes more than once. Their nearly daily arrivals give new meaning to the idea of visiting. There are, however, worse ways to spend winter afternoons.