I have a fantasy about being the kind of father who notices on his commute that the chestnuts on a nearby tree are ripe and brings home an armful to roast--the kind of person who is able to gather up richness where others see nothing worth noting.

What I learned about pigeons turned my revulsion into curiosity, and then, gradually, admiration. Disgust is not such a bad place to begin an inquiry. It's a good, honest emotion. It's one of those primitive reactions that simply calls a threat into focus...If my interest instead began with awe, then I'd be in real trouble, because the thing that prompted me to begin digging up information would also prompt me to ignore or distort any unpleasantness I might find.

Each animal fit into its own track, where it wouldn't overlap with and be muddied by the sounds of another. In a very real way, the animals were an orchestra: Each instrument made itself heard by producing a different set of frequencies. The elephants were the bass cellos, the hyenas the oboes, the hyraxes the clarinets, the insects the violins, and the bats the piccolos over the top.

It's simply not possible to always see the world fresh and in full, like a child, while also making money, paying bills on time, and taking care of a family...But doing this work and occasionally acting like a two-year-old pays dividends of awe and pleasure. It doesn't take very much time to notice that you live within nature...Wonder doesn't come from outside after driving somewhere spectacular, it comes from within: It's a union of the natural world and the mind prepared to receive it.

Many of the people who regularly feed and cultivate relationships with pigeons are themselves on the fringes of society. They are disconnected from other people due to poverty, limited language skills, or mental illness, but they form deep emotional connections with the birds.

What's true of other people is also true of places: to know deeply is to love more. To know the secrets of a place, to read it on many levels, and to sense the vastness of the unknown is, I think, the key to love.

If people start paying attention to the organisms that are thriving, unseen, among us, I think it will change us for the better: On the political scale, we'll become more realistic and effective in our efforts to protect the environment; on the personal scale, we'll be happier and more full of wonder.

Sometimes my mind snaps under all this stimulation and I enter a sort of fugue state in which I manically click from one window to another without accomplishing anything. It's hard to break out of this; the feeling is remarkably similar to the sense of being powerless to stop eating spoonful after spoonful of ice cream.

The aim of the book you are holding is to persuade people (myself first and foremost) to slow down enough to see the wonders around us.

If we come to love nature not only when it is rare and beautiful, but also when it is commonplace and even annoying, I believe it will heal the great wound of our species: our self-imposed isolation from the rest of life, our loneliness for nature. We might remember that we are no different from our surroundings, that the trees and birds are as much our neighbors as other humans. We might remember that before the land belonged to us, we belonged to it. We could belong again.