One of these guys.

I stood and admired it for a while as Emma industriously [...]]]> So this evening a little before 7 I was walking Emma Dog back south along the ditch east of the Rio Grande Nature Center field. Sitting in splendid isolation on a limb maybe 25 feet up I saw a Cooper’s hawk.

One of these guys.

I stood and admired it for a while as Emma industriously sniffed the undergrowth beside the trail. The hawk ignored us, as it ignored the other passing (lesser) beings.

Then from nowhere a hummingbird appeared – a tiny one, even by hummer standards. No idea what it was (other than “slim” and “grey”); hummingbird identification is not my strong suit as a birder – I must have one, yes? – and anyway I understand the autumn hummer migration is on and it could be all kinds of the damned birds.

This tiny, tiny bird flew right up facing the hawk – from about twelve inches away.

For a moment they looked at each other. Then the itty bitty hummer flew a foot up along the branch, and then blithely on its way.

Truly, hummingbirds know no fear.

Also, they know perfectly well there’s no way a largish hawk like that could ever maneuver well enough to actually catch one of them.

It was one of those moment I really wished I had a camera. Unfortunately I busted the sweet little digital camera Rich Zellich and his wife Michelle Tenney most kindly sent me as a get-well present last year.

Ah, well.  Still one of those things that remind me to be grateful for being alive!

Not pictured: martial arts master.

Emma and I went for a [...]]]> Sounds like an HK martial arts flick, doesn’t it? Except, while there are real crane styles, what would pheasant gongfu look like? You strut about obnoxiously, inviting everyone to admire how beautiful you are, then flee squawking frantically at the first sign of danger?

Not pictured: martial arts master.

Emma and I went for a walk on Bear’s Ditch this afternoon. Very pretty, with clear blue skies. Also nasty, with that icy wind that cuts through your meat like razors, and rings your bones like bells.

As we walked along the fence that forms the south boundary of the RGNC preserve I saw a big bird on the path in front of us. My first thought was, Jesus, it’s a giant roadrunner! Run away! Because what you call a giant roadrunner is Deinonychus.

But it wasn’t. It was a cock pheasant in bright and shiny new plumage. (I’ll wait while you enjoy your Beavis & Butt-Head moment: Heh. Heh-heh. He said cock.)

The big birds don’t usually stray across the fence, which they seem to regard as a safety barrier: the cranes and Canadas, as usual, paid us no mind when we walked past not twenty feet away. The pheasant, naturally, freaked the moment it became aware of us. It immediately flew over the fence. Its trajectory carried it right over the heads of four or five cranes.

They spread those huge wings, and the instant that wind hit them, it kited them instantly up a dozen feet in the air, ready to fly to safety. Then they noticed what had overflown them. And they obviously said to themselves, Oh. It’s just a pheasant; fuck it. And landed and went right back to browsing in the stubble as if nothing had happened.

It’s a beautiful autumn day. The trees have mostly turned gold. The grass in the RGNC field, which a giant noisy machine was mowing as we left, is still green.  The sky was clear and painfully pure [...]]]> So today Emma and I got an early start for a walk on Bear’s Ditch – before noon!  Yay!

It’s a beautiful autumn day. The trees have mostly turned gold. The grass in the RGNC field, which a giant noisy machine was mowing as we left, is still green.  The sky was clear and painfully pure blue. It was mostly calm, except for a breeze that was all too brief. Because it was cool at my house when we left I went with trousers instead of shorts, and rather regretted it.

I heard cranes almost as soon as I got Emma out of the car.  It took me a while of, well, craning around, but as we walked along the preserve’s southern fence to the ditch entrance I finally saw about a dozen, high up to the south of us, in small groups that joined and broke up again.

Trees line both sides of the ditch for maybe a quarter mile north from Candelaria.  Then they give way to a clear view of the RGNC fields to the west, and on the east a field between the ditch and RGB, for one or two hundred yards. As we neared the end of that I heard a crane cry and looked up to see a solo bird flying not very high overhead. He was evidently lonely, and calling up a storm in his attempts to find his flock.

I felt seriously sorry for him, up there feeling isolated and alone. Though they’re big, formidable birds they clearly rely heavily on the flock for survival, especially on migration. Just as the redoubtable Emma depends on her pack. But I assured him (not that he, or she, could hear me) that in that place and time it was unlikely he’d be alone for long. While they’re not out in the enormous numbers we’re likely to see in just a week or two there are plenty in the area now.

Still, I continued to feel bad, until I heard other voices answering the lone flyer. I looked up to see two more winging to join him. They all seemed relieved to find each other.

So I was happy. And all throughout our walk I continued off and on to hear the cranes.

Such is autumn in Albuquerque.

We also encountered two of the Very Nice Family, namely Mom and Dad, riding their mountain bikes. They were cheerful as always. They greeted me as “the Turtle Guy.”

I’m not sure I want that on my gravestone. Still, there are worse things to be known as.

And I was jolted awake by what I believed to be the cry of a flying crane or Canada goose. That was enough to levitate me out of bed, into my robe, and out the [...]]]> This morning I slept later than I originally intended to because, hey, I felt as if I needed the extra sleep.

And I was jolted awake by what I believed to be the cry of a flying crane or Canada goose. That was enough to levitate me out of bed, into my robe, and out the front door for a look.

Didn’t see anything unusual that time.  I changed into my clothes to put Emma out back.  As I did I heard a distinct trill, confirming that I wasn’t imagining what I’d heard, and that I’d heard cranes.

Both the wild geese and the cranes have a special emotional resonance for me. The sounds of their migrating formations in flight serves for me as sign and symbol of the changing of seasons.  There is that about them which I find both haunting and untamed.

When I first moved into my house (on Jupiter) over 21 years ago it was the geese that overflew the house, autumn and spring. Then to my sorrow their flight path shifted and I didn’t hear or see them anymore. From my house, that is:  they’re certainly abundant throughout my usual North Valley haunts. I just didn’t get the special thrill of being awakened by them any more.

Then a few years ago the cranes started coming over. Even better.

This time I didn’t see them either. I did see crows flying pretty high; I associate them with the coming of winter, just over a month off. But I was certain I had heard the cranes flying.

Originally I’d intended to take Emma Dog to the Vineyard, just ’cause we haven’t been there much in too long. I decided now to go to Bear’s Ditch, which is closer to the river – runs right along the east edge of the Rio Grande Nature Center. It’s a good place to see migrating cranes, which tend to follow the river.

So this afternoon, when I needed a break to think about something in my new Rogue Angel yarn (my title for it is Skinwalker; we’ll see what comes out), I took the Em out to the ditch. And sure enough, just moments after getting out of the car, I heard the cry and then the trill.  They’re both very distinctive, very penetrating. Which makes sense; they’re how the birds formate on each other in flight, I presume. They need to carry.

When I got to a spot along the south fence of the RGNC preserve where no trees obscured my view I saw them:  a vee of maybe a dozen to the north, high up and circling. I got my Simmons on them enough to confirm, yep, they were cranes. They were far enough that even in the glass I couldn’t make out anything beyond that.  Indeed, when I looked again with my unaided eye they’d vanished against the blue sky.

ut it’s always good to see them.  And hear them, of course.

So around 2 PM I wandered into the kitchen. It’s cloudy and not hot outside today, although [...]]]> Not the Sufi classic of that name, nor yet the Chaucerian tale, but my own backyard. See what I mean? Not only can you find adventure in your own backyard, but enlightenment too. Such a deal!

So around 2 PM I wandered into the kitchen. It’s cloudy and not hot outside today, although humid, and while it hasn’t rained yet there’s been enough thunder to discourage me from cinching Emma up in her harness and taking her for a walk. For light I opened the blinds.

And was astonished to see the backyard full of birds. There were dozens of them, perched picturesquely on stumps and the bushy dead treelimb I left for that very purpose by the galvanized tub of water set out as a birdbath, or wandering around pecking assiduously at something. They ranged from mourning doves through chickadees, a few pretty red-headed house finches, and a horde of what birders call LBJs, for “little brown jobs.” Who are what they sound like, little dust-colored guys, weavers and finches and sparrows, oh my. There was also a big bird – by which I mean robin-sized – that hopped around aggressively. From its size and its long, sharply curved beak, and the fact that my NatGeo bird guide says they live here, I’m surmising it was a curve-billed thrasher:

Not pictured: thrashing

It hasn’t yet begun to rain regularly here, but the last few days we’ve had a couple brief, exceedingly intense rains. That’s bringing up a profusion of new weeds sprouting. In fact I went out and spent some time uprooting some of the more egregious goathead plants. Which I learn are also called puncture vines, appropriately enough. And when the weeds get a bit larger and make themselves better target it’ll probably be time to sharpen up the scuffle hoe and hold an old-style Weed Massacree.

I’m still hoping to get a lawn in. Which also entails hoping the rainy season isn’t passing me by. But I’m really going to have to go into overdrive on writing, so we’ll see what I can do by way of landscaping.

At any rate, my honeysuckles are flourishing like mad things, and the spearmint I put in a month or so ago, having spread out some horizontally, is getting some good height on it. looks as if some’s getting ready for ice tea.

Sadly I find few decent xeriscaping resources online. There’re lots of files available but not many places I can find where questions can be asked and answered. The Albuquerque Master Gardeners’ site seems to be seldom updated and little use. Plants of the Southwest, which as I say I like, misses what seems to me an obvious and valuable bet by not having a forum or ask the experts feature.

So what the hey, I’ll toss some questions up and see if someone, please, will kindly answer. Ann Sasahara, who flies by sometimes (usually to see what adventures Emma’s had recently) is a certified Southwestern Gardening Goddess, so maybe she can offer sage advice.

Specifically: first, how to get rid of goatheads. Not the plants (which actually uproot pretty readily) but the thorns. These so far successfully resist our best brute-force efforts, which consist largely in Emma and I picking them up on our feet. Fortunately I do more of that; my feet are much bigger; Emma’s smart enough to stick to paths that are pretty free of the fiendish things; and when I venture out I wear shoes or sandals, the soles of which usually come back encrusted with the damned things, which I then flick off into a wastebasket with a knife. But despite the fact I seem to be eradicating the plants before they produce more, the residues of past years seem nigh inexhaustible.

Also: a good friend recently assured me that a horticulturalist told her bluegrass, though it takes a lot more water to get established than native grasses (such as the buffalograss/blue grama mix I intend planting), takes no more water to maintain. This strikes me as odd. Judith Phillips, author of the magisterial New Mexico Gardener’s Guide, says that bluegrass is “poorly adapted to the heat” – less an issue this year than usual, since it’s the coolest summer by far I can remember here – and that “bluegrass lawns use more water than any other landscape feature in New Mexico.” (pp. 362-3 of the older version; I couldn’t find my newer, more profusely illustrated and colorful edition.) Which is odd since I thought Phillips did the landscaping for my friend’s old house.

Anyway, what’s the scoop here? I’m actually still intending to put in native grass mixes front and back, but curiosity is biting at my fanny. As it’s so wont to do.

Say what?

I can accept it as a cosmic joke that the closest living relative of the great and terrible Tyrannosaurus rex is the tasty [...]]]> Via Cryptomundo, we learn that a DNA survey by the Chicago Field Museum reveals that “falcons are more closely related to parrots than to other hunters such as hawks and eagles.” Allegedly.

Say what?

I can accept it as a cosmic joke that the closest living relative of the great and terrible Tyrannosaurus rex is the tasty chicken on my plate (get your revenge on Rex with this delicious-looking recipe for marinated red chile chicken.) But to think that the fierce and independent (and, face it, cute) little kestrels I see around here so often, who so perfectly exemplify Gary Larson‘s dictum that “Birds of prey know they’re cool,” are … parrots?

One way or another, that’s what they say here: “Field Museum’s genetic study rewrites family tree on birds.”

Read + weep.

As [...]]]> I just got back from taking Emma on a walk on the ditch that leads along the eastern side of the RGNC wildfowl preserve. It was a beautiful Spring midday, mostly clear; the sun was hot and the breeze cool, a combination I really enjoy. Too bad we don’t get it too often.

As we were heading back to the car along the southern fence of the RGNC fields I saw a couple of ring-necked pheasant cocks (okay, get the giggles out of the way. It’s what they’re called. Deal.) Albuquerque’s North Valley down by the Río Grande is infested with pheasants. The males strut around, looking absurdly gorgeous with their shiny green heads, red-circled eyes, golden breasts, and long-feathered tails. And of course what they’re doing is trying to attract babes.

So these two cock pheasants came running toward the fence through green ground cover that was maybe chest-high on them, four or five inches on average. It looked as though they were racing. Their courses converged until they came within about eight feet of the fence, when they stopped ten feet apart. Then they turned around and walked back out into the field, again angling toward each other, until they were walking side by side.

Then they stopped and turned toward each other. They started doing this bobbing routine, one ducking low while the other rose up, like pistons in a two-stroke engine. It looked suspiciously like a courtship dance; I was wondering if we were going to see some serious gay pheasant action here. Right out in front of God and everybody. Think about the children! (Imagine that as said by Bill Clinton in his customary Berkshire hog-as-televangelist squealing grunt.)

More likely it was some kind of rivalry dance. As I watched this Emma and I started walking again. Before we’d gone more than a few steps this hen pheasant comes booming out of the low brush right by the fence. She flew off at an angle past the fancy-dancing males and out into the field. The nearer male turned right round and went running off in her direction, chuckling to himself in triumph. The other emitted a loud clack of dismay. “Dammit!”

As [...]]]> When Emma and I went on our walk today, on the bike path and trails down along the clear ditch by the RGNC, it was a lovely afternoon. The breeze was cold, but it’s mostly a sheltered walk. Only walking west down the path from Candelaria did the wind-tunnel effect make it really bitter.

As we crossed the wooden footbridge across the ditch from the Nature Center gate a young mother with two kids by the far landing stepped aside to let us pass. A wise idea, as it turned out.

Her older kid, a little boy of maybe five or six, came tottering forward as we reached that end, blithely ignoring his mom’s repeated commands to stop. And then he did stop, and his eyes got real wide.

“There’s a big dog!” he announced breathlessly.

Yeah, kid. No diddly. Listen to your mama next time, won’t you?

Actually I don’t think Emma would ever remotely hurt a child. She got along well with the kids at the home she lived at for a year. It was the other dogs she had a problem with. Still, I prefer to avoid putting such things to the test unnecessarily.

There’s no question that, at almost 100 pounds, burly and black with a shoebox head, Emma looks formidable. Okay, she is formidable. Most people just assume she’s a he. A lot of people admire her, some with visible trepidation.

They should hear me coo at her as my baby girl…

It seems the cranes have finally flown away. I didn’t see any in the field along Veranda, east of the RGNC. It’s sad, of course, in a way. But if they don’t go away, where’s the poignancy when they return?

That’s not altogether true. The Canada geese don’t all leave. A goodly population sticks around and produces broods of deceptively cute babies. (Deceptive, in that their parents are huge and scary.) But when I hear the wild geese flying back as the autumn air turns crisp, it always stirs me at a very deep level.