Dawn of Exhaustion

At the Swaner Preserve & EcoCenter, the Christmas Bird Count convenes not between filmmakers and actors, but between Rhea Cone’s earnest volunteers and the faint hiss of snow‑breathed winds. The crowd—half-a dozen snow‑clad mid‑career CEOs, a pair of champagne‑drinking vloggers, and a platoon of retirees in wool coats—descends under the step‑and‑repeat red of early‑season photography, clutching field guides like talismans. The dress code is strictly functional: layered wool, a scarf, and, for the hopeful, a spare pair of binoculars. The vibe is less gala black and more gallery white—soft applause for a new species sighting replaces the thud of a champagne cork, and polite nodding is substituted for a nod to Kimball Art Center. As a minister, I find the event’s purity almost an affront to my taste; the flavor is culinary, not flamboyant. Verdict: Send a check but stay home—with the usual sober applause and a gentle waggle of tail feathers.