Phil Tate
The other morning, one of my girls spotted a cardinal before I did—bright flash of red in the holly tree. “Check it off!” she shouted, sprinting to our bird list by the window.
I didn’t expect to be a bird guy. But these days, I’m paying more attention—to what’s in the branches, what’s calling from the canopy, and how much life is moving through the trees I’ve spent my career caring for.
I don’t climb much anymore. These days, I spend more time walking properties and talking with folks about their trees—what needs pruning, what’s worth keeping, what’s become a hazard. Lately, I’ve noticed more people pointing to specific limbs and saying, “Leave that one—the birds like it.” And I get it now.
Out back, we see cardinals, woodpeckers, mourning doves. Sometimes a red-tailed hawk overhead. The checklist is taped by the window, and the girls love checking off a new visitor. It’s simple, but it’s something we do together, and it’s made me slow down in a way I didn’t expect.
Trees aren’t just trees. They’re neighborhoods. That dead limb you thought looked messy might be the perfect perch. That hollowed trunk? It might be somebody’s home.
So now, when a client asks me to leave a snag or a low branch because they’ve seen a bird there—I don’t argue. I make a note. Because caring for trees also means respecting what’s living in them.
Next time you’re out in your yard, stop and listen. Chances are, the trees are already busy—you just have to look
