Birders glory in having spotted a Tennessee warbler in Central Park, and I would, too, if I was fortunate and plucky enough to see one. But day-to-day, this New Yorker exults in the sparrows of Hell’s Kitchen.

They chirp and call locally outside our apartment window every morning. Happily, it seems. Sparrows are to 6 a.m. in the summer what the after-hours club people are to 4 a.m. on the streets: They do not care how loud they are.

But unlike when I hear the after-hours crowd, I rejoice in the sparrows’ lack of concern for their decibel level. One can be surrounded by concrete and many tall buildings and hear the clatter-bang-clatter-bang of construction, but the sparrows’ constant cheep-cheep-cheep from the bushes, trees, and overhangs along my street is a sweet, calming call that brings peace. Some call this type of sparrow a nuisance, and I understand that, but for me it’s an unsung hero – no pun intended – of my little corner of nature, darting from tree to wire to fence to roof overhang in Midtown Manhattan.

The sparrows’ call is a natural-world backbeat as I walk along the street. On a sweltering New York day, when the buildings seem to drip sweat, I’m walking slowly. But the sparrows have energy to spare, arcing from bush to tree to wrought iron railing and chirping madly in Ramon Aponte Park. This close to them, I notice how striking their gray-white breasts are and how their heads dart about.

Immigrant Tails

These are house sparrows, passer domesticus, also known as English sparrows. This species is not native to North America. As with so many things in America, New York figures prominently in how they got here, though there are differing stories. One account generally agreed upon, according to the New York City Department of Parks: In the mid-19th century, large tracts of land were cleared to make way for industry, housing, stores, and the like. This upset the ecological balance; native species of birds declined and insect populations grew. A number of New Yorkers affiliated with the Brooklyn Institute imported the house sparrows in the 1850s, hoping this would help to control the insects. Other cities followed suit.

Another story has it that the house sparrows were imported to America so it would have all of the birds mentioned in Shakespeare’s works. This account is even in the National Wildlife Federation’s Field Guide to Birds of North America. Whichever way these birds arrived here, they flourished more than anyone could imagine though they didn’t solve the insect infestation. Now there are an estimated 150 million house sparrows in the lower 49 states of the U.S.

The house sparrows are the bane of many. They are known to take over nesting sites of bluebirds and other species, destroying the eggs or nesting birds within. Still, as their own population declines due to certain threats, some take up their cause, and as I do, see them as a welcome inhabitant – with their chirping and flitting – on a crowded city street. If anything, I admire their hardiness and adaptability, their devil-may-care exuberance and constancy in the midst of millions of New Yorkers.

Common Birds, Uncommon Moments

It may also be that I’m a frustrated birder. I have friends who recognize the song of the winter wren at a goodly distance or who thrill to the many species of birds in Central Park’s ramble. New York is universally known for its Great White Way, but how many know that the city is also a Great Flyway, too? It is a key location on both the Hudson River and Atlantic flyways for migrating birds, according to New York City Audubon.

Intrepid birders have life lists that contain the American widgeon, the white-throated swift, and the painted bunting, among hundreds of species. Not me. I identify a dark-eyed junco, that visitor to countless suburban feeders, and you might think I’ve seen a cerulean warbler. A winter later, I see the same species and have to look it up again to reconfirm: “Is that a junco?” I mumble excitedly.

I go on walks upstate in the Catskills or Hudson Valley where everyday naturalists see cedar waxwings or Baltimore orioles. I take such walks hopefully, and all too often see starlings and robins. Still, I’ve learned that even the most common avian friend has a sweet evening song, an iridescent wing that picks up a gray day, or some other wonderful momentary gift.

So when I’m walking down my street in Manhattan, I don’t care from birding and life lists. I get much joy from the single, insistent, exuberant chirping of New York’s sparrows. While living with the soot that gathers on apartment windowsills, who could not see the New Yorker’s grit, so to speak, in a creature who takes “dust baths” of soil and dust on its feathers? As I walk, these hardy little birds call me back to the moment, as if in their song they say that everything I need is right here, right now. Sing it!