How birdwatching from home helped a Spuyten Duyvil resident rebuild routine and connection

From his apartment balcony overlooking the Hudson River, 63-year-old Gregory Taylor starts most mornings the same way: coffee in one hand, binoculars in the other.

Below him, the river moves steadily past the cliffs, and just to the side sits Villa Charlotte Brontë, its clay terracotta roof tiles adding a rustic warmth to the view. But Taylor is rarely looking at the buildings or the water. His attention is fixed on the air above it, and on the towering tree directly in front of his seat.

“People think you have to go somewhere to bird, like a park or a trail,” he said. “But this is one of the best spots I’ve ever had. The birds are already moving through here, you just have to be watching.”

From this vantage point, Taylor has learned to read the rhythms of migration, using the river as a guide. Certain species follow its path, he explained, especially in the early morning, when wind patterns help carry them north or south depending on the season.

“At first I didn’t know what I was seeing,” he said. “I’d catch something flying by and think, ‘That looked different,’ but I couldn’t place it. Over time, you start to recognize shapes, how they move, even before you know the name.”

Unlike birders who travel long distances or seek out rare sightings, Taylor’s practice is rooted in staying put. His balcony, with its wide view of the Hudson and The Palisades beyond, has become both an observation deck and a classroom.

What keeps him there, morning after morning, has as much to do with what he feels as what he sees.

Before birding, Taylor worked as a physical therapist, running his own clinic in Brooklyn, a borough he called home.  When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, the clinic closed, and the routine he had built over years disappeared almost overnight.

“It wasn’t just the business,” he said. “It was everything that came with it. I had a schedule, I had people I saw every day, and I had a purpose. And then suddenly, I didn’t. I went into a pretty dark place for a while. You don’t always notice it at first, but it creeps in. I knew I needed something to shift things, even just a little.”

Not long after, Taylor moved to the Riverdale area, trading the pace of his previous life for something quieter. The birding came later.

Years earlier, his then-partner had given him a birding book — a simple field guide that sat mostly untouched.

“It had been there for a while,” he said. “Every now and then I’d flip through it, but I wasn’t really using it. It didn’t click yet.”

After the move, with more time and fewer distractions, he picked it up again. This time, it held his attention longer. He started bringing it outside, comparing what he saw in the sky to the pages, even if he wasn’t confident in what he was identifying.

“I still didn’t know what I was looking at most of the time,” he said. “But I was starting to look more closely. That was the difference.”

The turning point came last year, when he signed up for a bird walk at Wave Hill.

“I almost didn’t go,” he said. “I wasn’t sure it was for me. But once I was there, it just clicked. For that whole time, I wasn’t thinking about anything else. No stress, no distractions. Just paying attention. I hadn’t felt that in a long time.”

When he returned home, that focus didn’t fade. It followed him back to the balcony, where occasional glances became a daily routine. As his interest grew, so did the number of people who noticed him. Neighbors began to ask questions, pointing out birds they had seen or asking what was passing through that day.

“It started with simple conversations,” he said. “Someone would say, ‘I saw something fly by yesterday,’ and I’d say, ‘Yeah, that’s been happening all week.’ It gave us something to talk about.”

Those exchanges grew into something more regular. Over time, a small, informal group formed, eventually taking on the name of The Balcony Birding Club. It has no official membership list or meeting time, just a handful of people paying attention in the same way.

For Taylor, that sense of connection has been just as important as the birding itself.

“There was a time when I felt pretty alone,” he said. “Losing the clinic, being home all the time, it cuts you off from people. You don’t realize how much of your day depends on that until it’s gone.”

Now, those small interactions —  a question in the hallway, a shared sighting, a quick exchange about what passed through that morning — have become part of his routine.

“It’s not a big group, and it doesn’t need to be,” he said. “But it’s enough. You feel like you’re part of something again. But I’d like more people to get involved, there’s so much happening right here, and most people don’t realize it. If more people started looking, they’d see it too.”