Every year there’s the bird count.

People bundle up, grab binoculars and head out at dawn, quietly thrilled by a flash of wings or the chance to say, “That was definitely a kestrel.” It’s wholesome. It’s nerdy. It’s very cool.

This morning, Sonoma County did a different kind of count.

Instead of birds, volunteers counted people. Neighbors who didn’t have anywhere else to be at 5 a.m. People sleeping in cars, tents, doorways and places most of us drive past without really seeing.

No binoculars required.

A familiar ritual, with higher stakes

Today is the county’s annual point-in-time homeless count, a one-day snapshot that happens before sunrise across communities nationwide. It’s required for federal funding, but it’s also one of the only moments when homelessness is acknowledged in a structured, deliberate way.

So teams gathered in the dark. Coffee cups. Clipboards. Headlamps. Quiet instructions. Some volunteers had done this before. Many hadn’t. All of them were up far earlier than they wanted to be.

There’s something oddly intimate about meeting strangers in a parking lot before dawn for a shared purpose. You don’t talk much about yourself. You talk about the cold.

What the count looks like from the ground

This is not an interview process. No one is woken up. No one is asked personal questions. Volunteers are trained to observe and record, not to intrude.

The work is simple and heavy at the same time. You walk or drive assigned routes. You look carefully. You count. You try not to double-count. You try not to stare. You try not to look away.

It’s quiet work. There’s no clipboard box for complexity. No line item for how someone ended up here or how hard they’re trying to leave.

The strange mix of awkward and human

There are moments that feel unavoidably awkward. Counting people is not something we’re taught to do politely.

There are also moments of kindness. A nod. A brief hello. Someone already awake who knows exactly why you’re there. Someone pretending not to notice, and you respecting that.

And yes, there’s gallows humor among volunteers, because that’s how people cope with early mornings and uncomfortable truths. Respectful snark. The kind that says, “This is hard, and we’re still here.”

Why doing this still matters

The point-in-time count is imperfect. It misses people. It compresses complicated lives into numbers. It doesn’t solve homelessness.

But it does something important. It creates a record. It makes invisibility harder. It turns what we all know is happening into data that decision-makers are forced to acknowledge.

For a few hours this morning, people who are usually unseen were counted on purpose.

That may not be enough. But it is not nothing.