I was headed toward the start of Whale Rock Trail in Narragansett, RI—a favorite of mine. It’s one of those hidden gems with intermittent winding boardwalks that gracefully skip across the muddy patches and weave through dense coastal forest. Eventually, it spills you out onto a bluff with ocean views and guides you all the way to a small beach, where the wind smells like salt and freedom.
But I didn’t make it that far.
Because just as I was about to step onto the trail, I spotted… him.
A bird.
But not just any bird—an unfamiliar one, perched like a gatekeeper at the edge of my journey. I raised my camera. He dove into the brush. Typical.
I waited.
He reappeared—same tree, same branch—so I stepped forward.
Gone again.
Okay. Game on, feather boy.
He was clearly testing me. Every time I tried to get the shot, he vanished like a magician mid-act. Then, just as suddenly, he’d reappear, looking smug. I started to think this wasn’t just any bird—it was a professional. A performance artist. Possibly unionized.
My casual walk had now turned into a photo stakeout. I stood there like a paparazzo outside a birdie red carpet event, hoping to catch him mid-pose. Every reappearance felt like a tease: “Wanna see me now? Nope! Too slow, amateur!”
It was less a birdwatching moment and more like a turf war.
Finally, he landed again—this time just feet away. Front and center, like he was tired of my incompetence and just wanted to give me one good shot. So I took it.
Turns out, he wasn’t rare. He wasn’t exotic. He was a mockingbird. The Northern Mockingbird, to be exact—a non-migrating, year-round resident of the U.S., Cuba, the Bahamas, and Mexico. Prefers grassy lawns, open spaces, and apparently, psychological games with unsuspecting photographers.
It all made sense. On the other side of the trail were suburban homes with acres of perfectly mowed lawns—his happy place. I’d wandered into his neighborhood, and this whole thing was him letting me know I was on his turf.
In the end, he gave me the shot—front and center, wings tight, beak proud. I like to think he respected the effort.
We both flew away from that moment—one with feathers, the other with photos and a ridiculous grin.
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