Wednesday, October 29, 2008, 1:24 pm
Merlins on wires and gulls in the sky
DUNCANVILLE, TEXAS — It’s a beautiful October day in north Texas. I can’t find a cloud anywhere in the sky. My sweatshirt is a little too warm if I stand out on the sun. Franklin’s Gulls are passing through, brilliant white against the blue of the sky, and there are wigeons on the lake.
Oh, well, you caught me. I was out running errands and stopped by Joe Pool. Didn’t really have time, but sanity has to count for something. And I figured the exercise couldn’t hurt me either. I was hoping for juncos or Harris’s Sparrows, but they are late migrants, and they aren’t back yet. They will be here in November.
Winged elms have begun to change in earnest now; most are yellow-green or golden brown. It’s supposed to reach the 80s again at the weekend, but by then, I’ll be in another hemisphere. Yes, more adventures coming soon for me, so stay tuned.
Robins, which are scarce here during the summer, are moving through again. I noticed pale fringes on their ruddy breast feathers, which I think means that the feathers are fresh.
I’ve discussed with some birding friends whether a small falcon perched on a wire can be assumed to be kestrel. This photo provides proof: no. Merlins will perch on wires too, and I noticed that when this bird landed, it did bob its tail a bit, though not as long or as emphatically as a kestrel does. Perhaps it’s some sort of balancing routine?
Around here, the fox squirrels are always dressed in autumnal colors. They’re busy now carrying acorns here and there.
I was impressed by this Phidippus jumping spider’s metallic green chelicerae.
Some colleagues who work in Mexico were here and wanted to go birding, so we went over to east Texas. At Caddo Lake, the cypress trees had started to turn, and winter birds like kinglets, Blue-headed Vireos, sapsuckers, and Winter Wrens had returned. At Martin Creek Lake in Rusk County, we saw an alligator snapping turtle (a lifer for me), which compared to a nearby Snowy Egret looked absolutely huge!
My 2008 year list stands at 690 species as I prepare to leave the country again. I’m hoping to break 700 next week! That would certainly be my biggest year total ever. We’ll see how it goes.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008, 10:42 am
Autumnotica
DUNCANVILLE, TEXAS — I’m looking out a north-facing window, watching clouds approach and overtake us rapidly. It is still as Blue Jays cry and mockingbirds babble in the slightly browning oak. A monarch flutters south over my building; they have been passing through for days.
I’m waiting for the cold front to hit — for the cool northern winds to rattle complacent leaves. It will reach us soon, in minutes, or maybe an hour. The clouds have already blotted out the morning sun. Right now, the pleasure is in the anticipation.
Is it autumn or is it fall? I used to argue that Texas had neither, but I’ve learned much about the world since then and have developed a hunger for subtlety.
I’ve heard people from outside the States criticize our use of the word “fall,” believing “autumn” to be the more sophisticated choice. “Fall” was in vogue when the first British colonists came to America, and their descendants continued using the word long after it fell out of favor in other English-speaking realms. “Fall” is an anachronism, but the word itself comes from very ancient English roots, and I share Gerard Manley Hopkins’ interest in keeping our Old English heritage alive.
But “autumn” is a fine word too, and evocative. Here are some pictures, then. Autumnotica, to coin a word:
A Black Vulture (Coragyps atratus) roosting in trees that have begun to change.
Poison ivy turns yellow, red, and even purple in the fall. I think it’s beautiful.
Hoverflies hang as if suspended in sunlight shafts that pierce the oak-juniper woodlands.
Ladder-backed Woodpeckers make it east to Dallas County — barely. This female was the second bird I’ve seen in as many years.
Blue Jay, blue sky.
A tree that suffered trauma early in its life now seems at peace as it reaches for the sun.
Smilax (or catbrier) always makes me think of the cooler months in Texas, perhaps because it stays green when other plants are dormant. But no touching.
This extraordinary green darner showed no fear of me. Whether she was chilled or dying I couldn’t say. On the larger image, you can see that the reflection on her eye is hexagonal. Do you know why?
Some of autumn’s brighter colors: A buckeye sips from liatris.
A small white aster (from the Greek for “star”) in the woods. There are more photos in the gallery.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008, 12:41 am
Why do we call it fall?
DUNCANVILLE, TEXAS — Late-afternoon sun hit the juniper, where two tiny bodies flitted through shadows. Ruby-crowned Kinglets, the first of the year. A soft call had given them away; otherwise, I might not have seen them at all.
This place is changing. Slowly, subtly, but surely. The sun is still hot, but the breeze is cool. Sumacs are reddening, and winged elms are yellowing. Kinglets have returned.
When you’re always changing hemispheres, seasons can start to lose their grip on you. July no longer means summer; April no longer means spring. Even to say it sounds heretical. But it’s true.
The intersections of place and time and self are what matter now; no dimension can be ignored. To find or create those intersections is to search. What happens then is serendipity.
When a mayfly landed on my hand, I welcomed it. I marveled at its bulging eyes, its tattered wings, supple abdomen, remarkably long cerci. The fragile creature hadn’t long to live, or to put it another way, its intricately constructed body would soon succumb to chaos. And so I imagined some sort of mutual comfort in the encounter between its body and mine.
Had the little creature already delivered its eggs or its sperm somewhere safe? I hoped so.
I imagined a dying mayfly host joining chickadees and ragweed in autumn’s anthem: On a participé à l’évolution!
Autumn might be sadder/more beautiful if it weren’t so beautiful/sad.
David J. Ringer
