DUNCANVILLE, TEXAS — Wonders abound in the odd intersections between time and space. There are spectacles and mysteries, traces of the past, and hints of the myriad future. When we bird, we place ourselves into those intersections deliberately, hoping to delve just a little deeper into the universe.

A Golden-cheeked Warbler recently arrived on a hilltop in Texas. He is singing now, staking out a territory for the mate he hopes to win. He flits to the top of a juniper tree, tilts back his head, and releases a brief, complex melody.

Below him, birders named Mike and David emit stifled exclamations. Farther away, down in the riverbed, huge three-toed hollows are a trace of the dinosaurs that once roamed this land. There were no Golden-cheeked Warblers then.

And what when another era has passed, and again, there are no Golden-cheeked Warblers? Warblers do not leave their footprints in stone, and their songs fade quickly in turbulent air.

DUNCANVILLE, TEXAS — If I hadn’t chased the warmly colored, oh-so-LeContey-looking sparrows down the hill, I probably would have seen the pair of swans come right past me. But as it was, I didn’t spot them until they were flying away.

Caught totally off guard, my brain retrieved and discarded several possibilities before screaming, “Swans! Swans!” Meanwhile, the huge white waterfowl grew more distant, and I strained to make out any details in the fading light. Rather than settling on the lake, they continued south until I couldn’t see them anymore.

I never saw whether the birds had black or orange bills. Tundra Swans would be a really extraordinary record in late March, I think. It may be more likely that the birds were free-flying Mute Swans, but I’ll never know, and that galls me.

They really were magnificent, those enormous white birds on powerful wings. Somehow, I wish I could be content to leave it at that.

Signs of change were everywhere this evening. The resident winter Canvasbacks are long gone, but small rafts of transient ducks rested on the lake. Those Redheads, Ruddy Ducks, Buffleheads, and others will probably be gone by tomorrow. A Winter Wren flitted through dead vegetation near the ground, not far from the place where a Black-and-white Warbler appeared between new, green leaves.

DUNCANVILLE, TEXAS — Early tomorrow morning, Brian and I will get in the car and drive west. Destination: Big Bend National Park.

I won’t have internet access while I’m away, but here’s a little something to tide you over. This is an excerpt from some writing I did after Jason and I visited Big Bend in May 2003:

We seemed to be inside some cosmic goblet, hewn from solid rock in forgotten eons past. Ages of neglect had crumbled its proud rim into ruins spectacular and terrible—cliffs, peaks, canyons, spires, and ridges. Time had covered the decaying stone with the thick dust of oaks, pines, and junipers. I could almost believe that mine were the only mortal eyes to behold….

But voices from the neighboring campsite broke my reverie. We had safely reached the Basin Campground and set up camp at site number 41. In addition to a covered picnic table, the site included a bear-proof locker for our food. We soon discovered that we were in the front yard of a family of Cactus Wrens. They were quite unafraid of us and did not hesitate to scold us if we got out of line. They ran around the campsite like miniature roadrunners (as Jason observed) and sang their dry, rocky songs from atop shrubs and boulders. Canyon Towhees also resided nearby, and we saw a few Chipping Sparrows, Audubon’s Yellow-rumped Warblers, and a roadrunner, too.

One of our best finds that afternoon was a beautiful Varied Bunting, who perched at the top of a small snag in the afternoon sun. He was one bird that I hadn’t been able to imagine from pictures in the field guides. Some birds, you know, look just the way you had expected them to look, just like the book. Well, Varied Buntings do not. He had a rusty-maroon nape, a Varied Bunting-blue face, black lores, and an iridescent lavender-rose breast. I tried afterward to think of a description for the blue of his face, but I had never seen anything quite like it before.

*

To the north, the ground dropped away to the bottom of a gorge; beyond that, a mountain ridge swept up suddenly. Two small sewage lagoons, dimples of precious water, lay at the bottom of the gorge, some fifty feet below us. They had summoned a storm, a whirling flight of Violet-green Swallows and White-throated Swifts. Those living bullets defied gravity and ruled the air with their tiny, powerful wills. They skimmed the water, darted over our heads, wandered through the gorge, and executed exhilarating plunges and swoops. Oh, how we longed to join them.

We left the aerial ballet reluctantly and continued our hike through scrubby grassland, studded with spiky, blue agaves, softer, greener sotols, and small oaks. Before very long, the trail began to descend into a narrowing canyon and mingle with a dry creek bed. This sheltered environment supports taller trees, and the grassland gave way to forest. We saw a brilliant pair of Mexican Jays on the trail ahead of us, but they fled into the underbrush as we approached. Massive walls of red-gold rock drew closer and closer around us.

The path and the creek bed were one as we neared the destination. Huge boulders lay at the bottom of the canyon, and the cliffs rose sheer, close on either side. A few of the bravest plants clung precariously to small ledges and niches far above us, but mostly we saw rock. Warm breezes wafted up from the desert floor. The setting sun made the rich stone glow, and the craggy walls towered to exhilarating heights. It is a sacred place, an ancient place. It defies man’s camera, man’s brushstrokes, and man’s words. It overwhelms eyes and mind as it proclaims transcendence.

Then, the canyon walls drew to within two or three yards of each other, and our path took a ninety-degree turn—straight down. It’s called The Window, a drainage gap in the Chisos Mountains. The rock at our fingertips and under our feet was beautifully, terrifyingly smooth. The only thing between us and a two hundred-foot fall, Jason said, was common sense. We gazed out at a pastel sky, shadowy desert, and distant purple mountains. Looking from one world into another, that’s how it felt, and I belonged in neither.

Though we wanted to stay, to bask in the awe and peace of the place, we had to start back. Camp was two miles away, uphill, and light was fading rapidly. As we turned away and began our ascent, the plaintive, haunting voice of a Canyon Wren sang the sun to sleep and filled our hearts to overflowing.

DUNCANVILLE, TEXAS –

Today I kept looking out the window, where brilliant Bradford pears set off chartreuse catkins and tiny new leaves.

cardinal arias
ground-starlet choirs
have vanished winter-gray wrinkles

wildblue burns–

now, clouds burst from resurrected limbs
     stark, pure, live!

DUNCANVILLE, TEXAS — Spring is coming to Texas, but tentatively, like a demure beauty too shy to step quickly through the door.

Redbuds (Cercis canadensis) are in full glory, here on the western edge of their range.

Saturday morning was chilly; a strong northwest wind made walking the Joe Pool Dam miserable and fruitless. My friends Fjord and Spence were with me, and after just a few minutes of the misery, we decided to retreat.

From the parking area, we watched a female Downy Woodpecker drumming on a dead limb, and I heard snatches of Ruby-crowned Kinglet’s song — two more signs of spring. I glimpsed a handful of wigeons and Blue-winged Teal in fine breeding plumage, but they took flight before Spence and Fjord got on them.

At Cedar Ridge Preserve, Bewick’s Wrens sang everywhere, and a harrier made several passes overhead. We had a brief glimpse of the first Purple Martin I’d seen this year, and we found a few white anemones (Anemone berlandieri?) in flower. As usual, Fossil Valley Trail was not especially birdy but rewarded us with drifts of white trout lilies (mostly foliage).

A final stop at Duncanville’s Armstrong Park produced great looks at Monk Parakeets and Cedar Waxwings. These parakeets were preening each other, a behavior known as allopreening. The park and nearby streets and parking lots certainly seem like the place to go if you want to see Monk Parakeets in Duncanville.

Sunday, I went back to Joe Pool after lunch. For the first time since December, I did not find a single duck on the lake — not even so much as a Mallard. The resident flock of Canvasbacks appears to have moved out, leaving only the coots and Pied-billed Grebes.

But it is the hellos, not the goodbyes, that we associate with spring. I watched several Purple Martins slicing through the air, their bodies glinting a deep, inscrutable color in warm sunshine. There were Barn Swallows too, the first of the year for me, and their flight again inspired me with awe.

The only other unusual sighting that day was a Red-shafted Flicker, a male with bright red marks on his face.

Not many of the native trees and shrubs are stirring yet. Forestiera pubescens adds splashes of color to the underbrush, and some sort of buckeye has begun leafing out. Ornamental oaks and Bradford pears are popping open all over town; the pears should be at their peak in another week. Evidently the mesquite trees, though, are in no hurry to break their long slumber.