The Book of Birds that Aren't

The Viewing Forest did not initially seem like a place to get truly lost. There was a trailhead with a welcoming signboard, gravel packed into neat lines, the whiff of civilization still seeking attention around the edges. A list of rules posted at eye level: "Stay on Path. All Wanderings Must Be Logged." It looked like a day trip. A picnic. Something to slot between brunch and the evening news

The birder thought so too. Binoculars hung comfortably around their neck, balanced from years of use. In the side pocket, a packet of peanuts, half-stale but dependable. And in their hands, the green field guide, spine cracked in the middle where pages had been thumbed too often. A book that had survived puddles and marshes, edges swollen from damp, corners worn soft. A book carried through summers and autumns like scripture.

The warblers were supposed to be moving through. A bright, jittery migration northward—yellow-rumped, pine, black-throated green. Names that always landed on the tongue like a secret code, a language outside language. The birder had driven here for them, hoping for quick wings glimpsed at the edge of vision, small flashes of color that refused identification.

It was about an hour in when the path began to forget itself. At first, the gravel thinned. Then the surface softened, shifting underfoot. Ferns appeared where they should not, scattered like careless handwriting across the ground. Another twenty steps, and the path was no longer path at all but raw forest floor. The air was cooler here, damper, and when the birder turned back, the neat line of gravel had dissolved. The signboard was gone, the parking lot gone. Everything erased as though stage scenery had been struck between acts.

“Well,” they said aloud, though their voice seemed muffled. “That’s new.”

They weren’t alarmed yet. Not quite. The forest was a kind of polite maze, silent but not unfriendly.

They opened the guide, partly to anchor themselves, partly to test reality. The first bird that appeared was comfort itself: a black-capped chickadee. The familiar round head, the note about its “cheerful call.” They breathed out.

The next page was less familiar.

Veil-winged Watcher.

A small bird with translucent feathers, its body angled in such a way that it seemed to look directly at the reader. Description: Often glimpsed just out of view. Known for recording the movements of solitary walkers.

The birder frowned. Ridiculous. A prank? But the book had been on their nightstand that morning. Untouched.

They flipped forward. Robins, sparrows, finches, all in their rightful places. Then—

The Rearward Lurker.

Frequently seen perched just behind the reader. Call resembles an intake of breath.

They spun around. Nothing. Only trees. But nailed to one of those trees was a small wooden clipboard. A sheet fastened to it read: Observation Log. Entry Pending. Witness required.

“Well,” they said again, softer this time.

They began to walk. Every twenty steps, another form appeared tacked to a trunk: Trail Compliance Survey. Acknowledgment of Passage. Each page blank, awaiting a signature. The trees had closed in, branches leaning like archivists over their work.

The guide felt heavier each time they opened it, as though the weight of cataloguing pressed against their hands. New entries appeared without warning.

The Mirrored Plumage.

Not a bird but the reflection of one. Wings beat in rhythm with the observer’s pulse.

and

The Page-Turner’s Thrush.

Rare. Appears whenever a field guide is opened in solitude. Plumage resembles fingertips.

They snapped the book shut. “Ridiculous,” they muttered. “I just need the trail.” Yet the very air pressed close, damp and heavy, as if filled with unrecorded paperwork.

Their eyes rose against their will. Every branch seemed occupied, every shadow feathered. A constant sense of being logged, surveyed, tallied. The forest had become an office of observation, its filing system alive and restless.

The sun tilted lower, staining the canopy in thin yellow. Hunger arrived, ordinary and insistent. They dug for the peanuts, finding them stale but edible, crunching each one loudly. A dare. A noisy proof of existence.

And still the guide called them back. They opened it again. This time, not a bird, but themselves—drawn with exactness. Crooked posture. Binoculars askew. Peanut dust smearing the mouth.

Name: Unclassified Bipedal Species

Habitat: Lost interiors

Behavior: Turns pages compulsively. Easily observed, rarely self-aware.

The birder slammed the guide shut. The sound rang in the hushed forest like a stamp on official parchment. Their heart gave a double-beat, the kind of error that would have required notation on a medical form.

Another sheet of paper drifted from the canopy, landing at their feet. Confirm Identity: Sign Here →

They laughed once, sharply, the sound breaking against the trees. It startled them, more strangled than they intended. “Very funny! Hilarious!” they barked into the silence.

A crow answered, or something like a crow. Or perhaps it was only another stamped notice: Auditory Witness Recorded.

And then, without transition, the forest opened. One step: shadow. Next step: light.

A clearing.

Someone stood there. Backpack, boots, windbreaker. Another hiker. Or something arranged to look like one. They held a book with a familiar green cover, the spine bent precisely where the birder’s was bent.

The birder froze.

The stranger raised a hand in greeting. A neighborly gesture. “Lost too?” The tone was easy, casual, like small talk across a suburban fence.

The birder pointed. “That’s—”

“Yes,” said the stranger, flipping open the book. The pages were dense with handwriting, illustrations, typeface identical to the birder’s guide. They turned the book outward.

An illustration stared back: the birder, down to scuffed shoes and the greasy smear of peanut dust.

The Rare Forest Walker.

Species of uncertain origin. Known for believing itself the observer. Catalogued here for the first time.

The birder clutched their own book tighter, suddenly unsure if they were the one holding it—or if it was holding them.

The stranger tilted their head, considering the likeness. “Well,” they said lightly. “You are rather striking, aren’t you?”