A field behind a beach cottage. A cowbird I’d never seen before.

By the third morning at Sugarapple, I had slipped into a quiet rhythm. Wake early, step softly past the French door, camera in hand, and walk the narrow path behind the cottage. The sky was usually pale and streaked with the last of the morning stars, but by 6:20, golden light was spilling across the grass. Each day began this way—standing alone in the damp field behind the beachfront cottage at Friendship Bay, camera raised, eyes alert, ears tuned. There’s a kind of joy in seeing something familiar and yet always new. The first to arrive were the doves. They showed up every morning like regulars at a café. The Zenaida Dove, stockier than the rest, with a soft pinkish chest. The Eared Doves, a bit sleeker, often in small pairs. Common Ground Doves, tiny and quick. Even a Eurasian Collared Dove now and then—clearly an import but comfortable among the others. They foraged in the low grass, sometimes pecking near each other, sometimes apart. It had only been three days, but I already knew the patches where the grass grew thicker and the little muddy trail to Friendship Road where I always stepped too heavily. This morning, though, there was a stranger in the mix. Female Shiny Cowbird (Molothrus bonariensis), Friendship Bay, Bequia · Tuesday 13 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 640 · 1/250 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 At first I thought it was a juvenile grackle. The posture was familiar: alert, slightly forward-leaning, eyes bright. But it wasn’t quite right. The bird wasn’t glossy, and the plumage wasn’t a solid black or blue. It was dark, yes—but flecked and soft-looking, a dusty brownish-grey that caught the morning light with a quiet texture. The beak was stout and a bit curved. She moved with a kind of nervous energy—hopping, pausing, scanning. I fired off a few frames. The sun was low but already rising fast, pushing sharp shadows behind each blade of grass. The temperature was just over 25°C, and there wasn’t a breeze. The air felt still but not heavy. You could hear the sea on the other side of the coconut trees, slow and even. The bird let me get three clear shots before she moved deeper into the grass. In one of them, she’s looking right at me—curious, not alarmed. I didn’t know who she was until later. I ran the photos through Merlin ID and cross-checked the guidebooks back at the cottage. Molothrus bonariensis—the Shiny Cowbird. A female. The name “cowbird” always felt oddly plain to me, especially for a bird that causes so much drama in the avian world. Shiny Cowbirds are brood parasites. They don’t build their own nests or raise their own young. Instead, the female lays her eggs in the nests of other birds—sometimes several hosts in the same season—and leaves the parenting to them. Some hosts reject the eggs. Others raise the chicks as their own. Sometimes, the cowbird chicks grow larger than the host chicks and outcompete them for food. It feels ruthless. But also strangely elegant. A survival tactic honed by time. Female Shiny Cowbird (Molothrus bonariensis), Friendship Bay, Bequia · Tuesday 13 May 2025 FujiFilm X-T3 · ISO 1000 · 1/250 sec XF150-600mmF5.6-8 R LM OIS WR · 600 mm · f/8.0 The female Shiny Cowbird is quiet in her colouring. Her feathers are brown with subtle streaks, her body slim and watchful. The males, I would learn, are more striking—iridescent and glossy. But this one was no peacock. She moved like someone trying not to be noticed. It’s possible to mistake a bird like this for something younger or less sure of itself. I had wondered if she might be a juvenile—perhaps even of another species. But the structure was all wrong for that. The bill was fully shaped, the feathers crisp and even, and the posture deliberate. There was no fluff, no awkwardness. She was clearly an adult. A mature female, doing what female cowbirds do—watching, moving, considering. Standing in that field, I found myself thinking about presence and consequence. Here was a bird I’d never seen before—one I might’ve overlooked if not for the camera. And yet her brief visit added a new species to my life list. There’s always something slightly miraculous about a lifer—the first time you see a species. It’s not the rarity or even the beauty that makes it matter. It’s the realisation that the world is just a little bigger than you thought it was the day before. That there are still names you don’t know and songs you haven’t heard. Later that afternoon, I thought of the dozens of nests she might have visited. The hundreds of eggs she might have laid. The generations of birds who raised her young without knowing. And how quietly she stood there that morning, almost blending into the grass. ### Like this: Like Loading... 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