This was . . . fine. Less than compelling--it took me the better part of a month to finish a very short collection of essays--but fine.
Keen uses his life-long love of birds to structure various autobiographical anecdotes, like a bead on a strong, each essay tied to a particular bird. The writing is best when it focuses on the interactions, the small moments, and doesn't try so hard to make Meaning(TM) out of each episode. But let's be honest: this whole book is about making meaning.
So what could have been very nice glimpses of life become something More. The two best essays are the way his love of birds helped him forge connections with a young teacher at his school, and a poor white woman from the Appalachia. In the end, though, the personal is set aside for him to extract his meaning. This is especially hard to take in the second of these two essays. In that one, he is on the hunt for the Ivory Billed Woodpecker. The girl's brother accidentally shoots some woodpecker, but Keen refuses to look at it, and so is left to wonder: was this a typical pileated woodpecker, or one of the last of the Ivory Billed?
Other stories similarly indulge the hard-to-believe. He befriends a flock of turkeys, for example, and one of the females seems to present herself for mating (!). He simply bets the bird. But the interaction is used as an example of how we can all become closer to the wildlife that surrounds us. It's a fine sentiment (fine!), but it grates a bit coming from a writer who lives in the ridiculous comfort of rural Sonoma County. (Were we only all so lucky.) I'm sure Keen's life has had its ups and downs like anyone, and he had a hard-scrabble youth, but still . . .
For the most part, the birds here are only vehicles. Not only excuses for his own stories, but for transportation out of the mundane realm altogether. Keen has a Jungian-Buddhist thing going on, with filigrees of Christianity and Judaism, and communion with nature is never just about communion with nature. It's communion with Nature so that humans can transcend the everyday world and reach the numinous--some mysterious, otherwise-indescribable state. He makes certain never to spell out the word God.
Again, which is all fine. He's certainly not the only one who looks to nature for transcendence. Rather, he stands in a long, long line of American nature writing, dating back to the mid-19th century. If he doesn't do anything here to extend that tradition, rework it, or develop, he also doesn't abuse it either.
Depending upon one's tolerance for Romantic uses of nature to further the growth of the human self--one will like this book or not in a direct relationship.