Monthly Archives: January 2024

Migrants

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The pintails arrived a few weeks ago, taking up residence in the local mangrove pond. Somehow, they crossed the border without passports or any other form of ID. Just drifted in on winds and chose their winter home. My normally ponderous mind, grabbed hold of the idea of borders, about how they are constructs, power structures, and quite out of step with the innate rhythms of our blue planet.

I harken back to American Indian tribes, who believed that no one owned the land (at least that was what i was taught), that the earth belonged to everyone. Seems the birds have it right. So I ponder and go about my day.

Northern pintails are long, slender ducks with long, narrow wings, earning them the nickname “greyhound of the air.” Pintails are named for their elongated central tail feathers, which constitute one-fourth of the drake’s body length. (Duck’s Unlimited)

They nest in seasonal wetlands, croplands, grasslands, wet meadows, and shortgrass prairies. They forage in nearby shallow wetlands, lakes, and ponds. They spend the nonbreeding season in wetlands, ponds, lakes, bays, tidal marshes, and flooded agricultural fields. (© Timothy Barksdale | Macaulay Library)

Dabbling ducks, they filter out seeds and insects from the surface of the water with their bills. They also waddle at the edges of wetlands and through agricultural fields feeding on grain and insects. They form large groups and readily associate with other ducks during the nonbreeding season.

They can be found on every continent except Antartica, which i suppose means they have a true GLOBAL ENTRY certificate. In any case, I enjoy watching the two pairs, and hope that their mating brings some ducklings to our watery pond.

New Year’s Day, 2024

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Dawn breaks with low hanging grey clouds and the persistence of a westerly swell that has blessed the eastern Pacific shoreline for nearly a week. Surfers up and down the coast have relished the opportunity to put their skills to the test in unusually large 10’ to 20’ foot waves. Boards have been broken, thousands of photographs taken, and adventure tales fill bar stools, dining tables, and campfire circles. The stuff of legends.

Here in southern Baja, we’ve traversed a full moon, listened to the waves thunder through the night sky, and woken to corduroy lines marching from the southwest.  Temperatures in the 70s. Water temps in the 70s. Dogs frolicking on sand stretches and out dirt roads. Heron fish the shallows, eyes fixed on tiny fish caught in the tide pools. Overhead, osprey soar, dive and shred their fish catch on my planted perch, talons and beak ripping the often still twitching soon-to-be-carcass. Nearby, vultures wait on fence posts for droppings, their task, cleanup.

The desert wastes little. And here, is definitely desert. Native vegetation stands between toe-high and knee high. In a few arroyos, errant scrubby near leaf-less trees might stand taller than 5’. Wind pushes plant life flat. Dormancy runs the long season now, dry until the summer rains. Plant life pulls inward, much like bears hibernating in far-off snow-covered dens.

My dog and I head late to the beach, having waited for the tide to recede and expose white sand. He runs and runs, long ears flopping, tail wagging. Sticks to find and beg to be tossed, and then chase and the game begins again.

It’s a new year. No resolutions, this woman, only looking forward and reminding self to pay close attention to each and every day. To increasingly open my heart, to make sure I tell those around me how much I care for them.

Already, one day is nearly passed. Only 364 left.

How will you spend yours?