Twilight Gatherings in the face of Desolation

The sun-scorched earth...nothing can grow, nothing can live...much less survive. The stoic Ibis stretches from one forsaken spot to another, the only shade being provided by rocks even more lifeless than the desiccated soil itself. Truly, this may be the spitting image of the last bit of life on earth, when that day comes...until that fragile little flame dies out amidst the all encompassing black of the universe.

Or it's just suggestive cropping in a particularly poor-looking area. On the other side of this little dirt road there was much more going on, and there always is, if one swings by in the last hour of daylight. These photos were all taken around the Broadway dairy farms, which are, quite in contrast to atmosphere of the beginning photo, teeming with activity.



Cattle Egrets have the namesake and reputation for bovine association, but out in west Phoenix where Cattle Egrets are few and far between anyway, the Yellow-headed Blackbird is, by far, the species seen most closely socializing and living with the cows.

They roost in the thousands at the protected Tres Rios wetlands just a mile south, and spend their days and evenings chittering, chattering, and making bizarre metallic sounds with their cow buddies.

It's a rip-snorting good time. Everyone gets plenty to eat, has plenty of gossip, and wallows in their own feces. When everyone's a party pooper, the party don't stop!

The Yellow-heads aren't the only birds to come out in large numbers in the evening light. Bulkier, quieter Eurasian Collared-Doves, the awkward wallflower or any semi-urban get-together, line the corrals. They know they're a good looking dove, but also that no one really likes them very much or wants them to be there.

Adjacent to the masses of unscrupulous farmyard birds, Burrowing Owls also become readily conspicuous as the evening wears on. They must remain diligent in looking out for Red-tails and Cooper's Hawks, but that won't stop them from imitating those wire-perching birds either.

Two look-outs are better than one; these fellows had the panorama covered well. They didn't mind my presence either, perhaps thinking that the large gangly creature would further deter any raptors from swooping in and ruining their evening porch time.

I'm hoping to try for a Maricopa rarity Harris's Sparrow this weekend and get some good photo ops at the Oak Flats campground in Superior, AZ. It's nice to have some direction and plans going into the weekend. It's also very nice to have some reliable spots, like those shown here, where fun and fine-looking birds can always be found. They sometimes have a gruff (or in the case of yellow-heads, cacophonous) demeanor, but they don't mind visitors in the evening, just don't stay too late. 

Burrower's Row

The Phoenix Metropolitan area is a curious concoction. Phoenix itself is a large city, both in terms of area and population. Surrounding the state capital are ten more small cities: Mesa, Glendale, Scottsdale, Tempe, Avondale, Goodyear, Sun City, Gilbert, Surprise, and Peoria. Stretching out from these locales, neighborhoods and master-planned communities seem to stretch on in all directions. One of my favorite birding sites, the Tres Rios Wetlands, sits near the border between west Phoenix and Avondale. While driving to Tres Rios, you'll pass through the cookie-cutter houses of the master-planned communities, neighborhoods where the pursuit of maximized square-footage was once the highest good (priorities and fashions have since changed). You'll also pass through lots of open, odiferous farmland. If you turn and head west just before you reach the Tres Rios site, and follow a dirt road along the farmland canal, you'll find another little planned community. Between the northern borders of the Tres Rios preserve and Farmington Glen sits Burrower's Row.

There are no signs announcing that, "You have now entered Burrower's Row," but there are still markers, of sorts, so you know when you're in the right spot:

Despite the somewhat slovenly appearance of this particular Owl, the residents of Burrower's Row are a very strict bunch. There is always a sentinel at the eastern-most point of entry, perched high on the telephone lines and supervising the little town's security.

The houses (burrows) are arranged in neat rows along the farmland. At the moment, there appears to be no more than 2 Owls living in each Burrow, though there are at least 4 different pairs of Owls. They have a strict home-owner's association, and they keep their domiciles very tidy. It's a pretty homogenous group. Crime rates and taxes are all very low, but sometimes they react to outsiders with astonishment and suspicion, even from afar.

In the morning and during the day, the residents of Burrower's Row like to stay down in the fields, away from the elevated dirt road and its dusty heat. During the evening, the descending sun holds everything in a warm embrace, saying goodbye with its last rays of yellow light, and promising to rise again soon. The Owls like to perch along the frontage road during this time. They preen, gossip, and replay the day in their heads--much like the rest of us. It is best to visit Burrower's Row during these quiet, well-lit moments.

The owl shown below may well be the sheriff of Burrower's Row. While all the other Burrowers were enjoying the fading light, he seemed determined to maintain his stern and serious face. I would vote to re-elect this Owl for sheriff if it were up to me, but alas I wouldn't even qualify for citizenship in Burrower's Row (which is probably a good thing for all parties involved).

"Drat! I knew I stepped in something..."

For this third and last photo, I couldn't settle on a caption. I'd like to leave this last photo open to suggestions. Is the Owl solemnly swearing revenge? Is it doing some sort of fist pump celebration? Is it seeing if it's possible to walk with one's eyes closed? You tell me, and try to stop by and visit the wonderful residents of Burrower's Run some time soon.