I met a man who looked like Ernest Hemingway.
He was out-and-about picking up trash as part of the local bird club and I joined him.
Together we walked the park, garbage bags and litter-pickers in hand.
He spoke often and in good spirits. He told me about aging and nature, the number of edible plants within the woods, and to be weary of what the damn government might want to take from me.
He went on and I listened.
At one point he paused and looked deep into the trees. There was a bird singing just beyond sight.
He turned with a big grin on his white-bearded face.
“That there is a hooded warbler,” he said.
I was dumbfounded. “How can you tell?” I asked.
“Aww, you know,” he replied, “I’ve just been listening for 50 years.”