Getting buzzed is what birds do to intruders. And no, I don’t mean they’re sipping cocktails mid-flight. I mean feathered fury, beak-first combat, feathers flying, DEFCON 1 in the treetops.
See, mama birds are not here for your nonsense. You so much as sneeze near their babies, and suddenly you’re in a Hitchcock sequel no one asked for. I speak from experience. And trauma.
I was recently photographing least terns and piping plovers at the delta of the Narrow River in Narragansett, RI. The area is clearly marked off—ropes, signs, guilt-inducing warnings—all the usual indicators that scream “DO NOT CROSS.” I respected the lines. I followed the rules.
Then—bam! Out of nowhere, a tern is IN. MY. FACE. Not near it. Not above it. IN it. I flinched so hard I nearly swallowed my lens cap. Turns out this particular tern decided the official nesting zone wasn’t good enough. No, she wanted beachfront property with a view—and made her own little nest outside the protected area. I had wandered too close, oblivious, and she made sure I knew it. I backed down immediately, apologizing profusely like I’d just insulted her entire lineage.
And honestly, I felt a little embarrassed I didn’t spot the nest. I mean, I’m out there in full birder mode—two cameras, long lenses, sun hat, beach wagon to haul my gear—and I still got played by a bird that weighs less than a granola bar. It’s humbling, really. You think you’re the observer, the one in control. But out there? You’re just another clumsy mammal one wingbeat away from being dive-bombed by a feathered fury with a grudge.
Take the barred owl. She’s nature’s stealth bomber—flies without a sound, has talons that could slice deli meat, and a diet that includes everything from mice and frogs to snakes and the occasional woodland soul who just looked at her funny. You’d think, surely, this avian assassin commands respect. Right?
Wrong.
One day I’m photographing this majestic, stone-cold killer, marveling at her poise. That’s when a blue jay appears. And I mean appears—like in a puff of vengeance. BAM! Hits the owl in the head mid-perch. Banks like a fighter jet, circles, and BAM—again! By the third strike, the owl gave a look like, “You know what? I don’t need this today,” and just left. Dignity somewhat intact.
I once watched a raven heckle a condor on the Colorado River for a solid 20 minutes. A condor! The avian equivalent of a flying dinosaur with a PhD in Gliding. The raven was like that one guy at a party who keeps poking the biggest person in the room just to see what happens.
And recently, at Schuest Point, in Middletown, RI, it was the raven’s turn. I saw it coasting in from a distance, wings barely flapping, just enjoying the ride, probably humming some smooth jazz in its bird brain.
Then it crossed into restricted airspace—the nesting zone of a few hundred red-winged blackbirds. Oh boy.
They launched like missiles—no warning, no countdown. Just whoosh! and feathers. It was a synchronized attack, like watching an elite military unit that had trained for this very moment. The raven bailed fast, probably reevaluating some life choices.
Now, you might say, “Wow, birds are intense,” and you’d be right. But me? I get it. Because I grew up with five sisters. Five. And let’s just say, I know what it’s like to be outnumbered by a squad of extremely territorial females.
My mom—God bless her—used to refer to me simply as, “My son.” My sisters never let me forget it. They weaponized that phrase. Sometimes they would use an abbreviation, “M.S.” They’d say it like they were narrating a documentary about the last remaining male in the village. Mom, it’s M.S. on the phone. She’d just smile.
So when I see a mama bird lose her mind because someone flew too close to the nursery, I don’t just understand. I feel it in my bones. Because whether you’re a barred owl, a blue jay, or a guy with five sisters pretending he’s irreplaceable, the message is the same:
Don’t mess with the nest.
Some things aren’t instincts. They’re just family.
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