Mention orchids, and most people think of stunning flowers. A conversation about dolphins invites comment on their intelligence. And the topic of thrushes inevitably leads to a discussion of beautiful songs.

One of the most interesting, if not the oddest, birds in the Rogue Valley is the acorn woodpecker. I'll explain in a moment, but a little background first.

The song of the male Anna's hummingbird is hardly a thing of beauty, at least to human ears. It is a thin, high-pitched, grating noise, usually three syllables in length.

Let me introduce you to a couple of foot tremblers. This may sound a bit odd, but bear with me.

Snow-covered trees tower above the cold, black waters of a mountain stream. The waters still tumble down the slope even though snow crowds the banks. The summer birds of the high country have long since departed for Mexico. Yet, a small, gray bird with its short tail held high sits midstream on a rock ringed with ice. The bird bobs a few times and then inexplicably plunges into the swirling waters.

We all have friends who are never late for any engagement and others who are easily distracted and take a less direct approach to life. So it is with birds.

If you travel abroad, you might find familiar birds such as western wood pewees and cliff swallows wintering in South America. You can even find familiar birds in Australia, such as Caspian terns, barn owls and osprey. This might be unexpected, but birds have incredible mobility.

Even for the most casual observer of nature, a woodpecker is easy to recognize. They all have a stout, straight bill, they perch upright on the trunks of trees and are supported by a stiff tail. In typical woodpecker fashion, they all drill holes in trees to construct a nest. In most species males and females are similar except for a touch of red on the head of the male.

People who enjoy birds as a hobby come in many flavors. They run the gamut from those whose experience is purely recreational to those who elevate the pastime to intense competition. I classify them as birdwatchers, birders and listers.

Each morning I wake to a blizzard of songs. I'm not referring to the dawn chorus whose medley of different voices makes it difficult to focus on a single singer. No. This bird is nearly a chorus of its own. The singer outside my window is the irrepressible house wren.