Listening with Merlin Bird ID, I Hear the Patterns We Live By

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Illustration by Jillian Ditner.

We were car-birding a reed marsh near the Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge in eastern Maryland—me and my uncle Ralph, binoculars trained, trying to make sense of a sparrow that wouldn’t sit still long enough for either of us to be sure. It was one of those midsummer sparrows—muted, flickering in and out of the reeds, unbothered by the debate going on in the car, which were replayed scripts of moments just like these over decades.

I scanned for plumage: faint eyestripe? No, maybe not. Long tail? Vague. We ran the list. Swamp. Seaside. Nelson’s—unlikely in midsummer, but it crossed our minds. The old Sharp-tailed Sparrow grouping still echoed in our shorthand, even though it’s been split for years. Range maps. Habitat. Behavior. Nothing definitive.

And then I heard it—the song. It sounded like a broken catbird—buzzy, abbreviated, like it never quite decided what it wanted to be. As we drove off, I held onto that sound. It stuck with me. It didn’t close the case, not fully. We left the bird marked as “probable, but not definitive.” And therefore: unsatisfying.

Even though the sighting stayed in that frustrating category of “probable,” the moment itself made something else absolutely clear: I don’t ever want to bird again without the Merlin Bird ID app.

That moment in the marsh reminded me: Birding has never just been about identification. It’s about connection. Integration. Feeling a pattern fall into place. And what Merlin—the smartphone app from the Cornell Lab of Ornithology that can identify birds via sound, photos, or a quick step-by-step guide—provides me is a way to stay inside the process, not just observe it. A way to belong.

Because Merlin can do what I no longer can.

The blur of noise is no longer ambient. It’s a narrative.

I use a power wheelchair now. It’s a relatively recent shift in my life, and while I’m deeply grateful for the mobility it gives me, birding has changed. Holding binoculars steady is harder. I often need to brace on something, and uneven terrain makes that complicated. This isn’t a complaint—and yes, I know there are gear solutions and workarounds. But that’s not what this story is about.

This story is about how Merlin showed me a different way to bird—one that didn’t feel like a compromise. It expanded what I could still do really well: listen.

Because Merlin isn’t just an app, it’s a tool—maybe even a companion—that tunes the world differently. When I sit outside now, I’m not just hearing birdsong. I’m understanding it. I can hear a cardinal and know it’s a spring song—a bright note, a declaration. I can hear a Tufted Titmouse and recognize the call-and-response—a conversation I can finally follow. I can hear the repeating territorial song of a Carolina Wren and understand what that loop is trying to say.

The blur of noise is no longer ambient. It’s a narrative.

And here’s the deeper truth: It’s not just birding Merlin enhances. It’s attention. It’s pattern recognition. It’s belonging.

I call this kind of experience Visceral Technological Kinetic Fulfillment—a term I use in my work as an adaptive technologist who helps people with disabilities use devices or software to meet their unique functional needs. It’s what happens when a well-designed tool doesn’t just extend your senses—it aligns with your way of being. It removes friction between perception and meaning. It doesn’t force you to become someone else. It lets you become more fully who you already are.

That’s what Merlin does for me. I don’t want to watch birds like I used to. I want to listen to birds like I can now.

I’ve always been someone who follows sound. I remember the first time I ever heard an Eastern Phoebe in Connecticut—its raspy, insistent phoebe!-phoebe! song—plainspoken and persistent, a familiar voice calling from the edge of a quiet wood. That sound has never left me. And now, even if my legs can’t carry me up a hillside trail, Merlin can help me know when that bird is near. I can listen for it, confirm it, and still feel part of the world it lives in.

Merlin is also, quietly, one of the most accessible tools I’ve ever used. If your body is unable or your eyes aren’t sharp, you can listen. If your hearing’s not great, you can follow the spectrogram or read the names. If you’re neurodivergent, the structure and clarity can light up your brain in the best way. And if you’re just someone trying to feel connected again—to place, to rhythm, to the world—Merlin delivers. Gently. Instantly. Reliably.

What Merlin really is, for me, is an access portal. To the natural world. To joy. To memory.

We don’t talk enough about what these tools do to us, not just for us. What they open up. How they change the way we walk through the world. Merlin is marketed as a birding assistant. What it really is, for me, is an access portal. To the natural world. To joy. To memory. To narrative.

Here’s the thing: I’m not a lister. I’ve never kept count, never flown across the country for a rarity, never chased the big year. I’ve seen most of the easy, colorful birds here in North America. What’s left for me now are the sparrows, the shorebirds, the gulls and terns—birds that all blur together unless you really know how to look or listen. And sometimes, it feels like work. But it’s the kind of work I’m drawn to—the kind that asks not just for identification, but for something deeper.

I’ve come to think of myself as a fulfillment birder. I don’t need genetic confirmation or a second opinion from a rare bird alert. I don’t mind seeing the same bird again and again. I still target species—sometimes even plan family trips around them. (That Great Gray Owl at Sax-Zim Bog? Worth every mile.) But the thrill isn’t in the chase. It’s in the alignment—when all the cues come together, and something inside me just knows. That’s the bird. That’s the moment. That’s the story.

And yes, I avoided Merlin at first. It felt like cheating. Like outsourcing the part of birding that was supposed to be hard earned. But I’ve changed my mind. Merlin doesn’t replace the story—it reveals it. Last spring, I used it to track down a Wood Thrush I was hearing but couldn’t see. When I finally spotted it, I realized it was gathering nesting material—and had been calling in that particular rhythm for a reason. That’s what Merlin helps me do: catch the layer beneath the sound.

And that’s how I know: I still belong. Maybe not always with those listing their sightings. But definitely in the story about birds and the natural world. That day in the refuge, puzzling over sparrows with my uncle, showed me I had crossed some kind of line. From passive birder to participant in pattern. From seeker to interpreter.

I’ve never heard birdsong the same way since.

And I don’t ever want to go back. 

About the Author

Andrew J. Lewis is a writer and adaptive technologist based in Maryland, where he lives with his wife, son, and daughter, Phoebe. His work explores how people re-author their lives after trauma, illness, or identity disruption. His book A Democracy of Facts—about American ornithologists and naturalists during the era of the American Revolution—was published in 2011 by the University of Pennsylvania Press. He’s been writing about birds since a second-grade report on the Peregrine Falcon.  



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