I added a water area to my new-and-improved, multilevel bird pseudo-microhabitat, which meant every day I had to open the window, crack out the ice that had formed overnight, and refill it with warm water. (I'd heard the steam might attract the birds' attention. )

K., witnessing this performance, asked if I was "doing ice experiments again," remembering last winter's enthusiasm, when I wanted to know what happens when ponds freeze. Since this experiment also involved water in bowls and assorted natural materials, and was also sited outside my kitchen window, I tried not to sound irritated.

"No, it's a birdfeeder." I recounted everything I'd tried doing to attract birds. Midway, I realized I was inexactly the same muddle I'd been in with the "freezing pond simulation"—I'd tried so many things and added so many improvements at once that I didn't know which ones, if any, worked. Not that it mattered; there were still no birds.

And then suddenly, there were. House sparrows, singly and in duos, who were so at home they actually napped on the windowsill, puffing out their gray winter underfeathers and tucking their heads into their breasts, glaring up sleepily when they woke.

We stood well away from the window at first, but soon learned that we really could just be there, less than a foot away, and if we didn't move suddenly or make loud noises, the sparrows would just keep on doing their things. It was like bird TV.

A few times, a starling made a brief appearance; it was warier and would fly when it saw us. From the ground, starlings don't seem big, but up here, compared to the diminuitive sparrows, this one seemed like a monster. It had a sharp yellow beak and sleek feather coat, which was iridescent black and dotted with glowing white-green speckles.

From the comfort of my kitchen, I acquired more knowledge about house sparrows and their behavior in a few days than than I had gained in the past year and a half. Until now I've not been able to get beyond identifying any small brown bird as "a sparrow, I think," a lack of precision which baffled my birding mentor, T. He knew many kinds of sparrow and couldn't seem to understand why I hadn't learned to recognize even the one species I saw all the time. "House sparrows aren't even real sparrows; they're Old World finches," he said. Knowing this was interesting, but it did not help.

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