My New Wren (7)

Today I went to the Coachella Valley Preserve for my first guided bird hike. I didn't know this was the last one they had until fall. I would have been sad to have missed so many chances, to have had to wait four months. But Mark, the leader, told me about two other places who have guided bird walks, too, so I won't have to wait, including the wild bird rescue place where I brought the mourning dove last week. And he said they're having a special full moon hike at the preserve in June. Ah. Hiking in the desert in the summer dark will require a bravery I am not certain I can muster, but I want to. I want to bring myself. I can imagine it because most parts of the trails are pretty open there, can picture it luminous on the full moon night, want to be brave enough to go.

Today we had the sun's light, and 7:30 found us gathered under the fan palms, the chill morning air surprising. It was windy, the birds hunkered down, hidden. We heard one calling in the palms. Mark said it was a cactus wren (who I had never seen). The call was familiar to me, one my subconscious recognized, I think. But we didn't see the wren until much later. We saw mourning doves and ravens, all seeming to struggle in the wind. We caught sight of a bird who flitted about, off and on, here and there, but he was impossible for even the experts to pin down. A swift? A tufted something? No one knew. We walked to the oasis, the water clear, still, promising. The house finches lived there, singing and flying about, morning visits. The males have a more vibrant red here than I've ever seen. It's iridescent. We climbed to Vista Point and looked toward the Salton Sea, toward San Gorgonio, the desert and mountains vast and forever. The wind was fierce.

On the way back a cactus wren was kind enough to call to us from the top of a dead palm tree. He was lovely, all softness, somehow, like hawk babies with their fluff. His beak was graceful, and he seemed so cheerful. Standing there in the clear, windy desert air watching and listening, he made me glad. And I knew he was one I was truly learning, his image and his sound imprinting me. It has been my fond hope to learn more and more birds by their voices, the only way I can imagine really knowing them, finding them in the world. As I type this I can't bring his sound back to me, but I hope I'll recognize it again, have it become fully entrenched in me the way a hummingbird is or a red shouldered hawk. When I got home today, I'd only just walked in the door when I heard someone calling outside. Who was that? I reached for my binoculars, moved with care into the courtyard, pointed them toward the voice. I couldn't believe who was sitting there in our pine. You'd think this was fabricated, too perfect to be true. I still can't bring the voice back to me, didn't recognize it then when I grabbed the binoculars, was just fresh from my bird hike, eager to discover more. But I saw the fluff, the speckles, the sweet curve of the beak, watched the body puff and vibrate as he gave his cheery call. I knew him; I'd learned him today. And now he was sitting in our tree as though he'd been there always, and maybe he had. Or maybe he just wanted to be sure I remembered him, the beautiful little happy bird, my new wren.

[Editor's note: Here is a picture of a cactus wren sitting on an ocotillo bush. Ours was atop a dead palm but we saw a blooming ocotillo, too.]