Hatchlings

When the two newly hatched Mourning Doves in our care died, Ellen and I were saddened.

Yet, as native desert dwellers, we both knew what all who dwell here know. That our bones will turn to dust and critters will die as sure as fish will swim and fledglings shall fly and as surely as the Santa Catalinas have stood for 20-million seasons the wildflowers of spring will be the tumbleweeds of summer rolling on and on across the ages.

In this desert ruled by natural selection I accepted the loss of a beloved pet cat to the buzz saw claws of bobcat.

On the trail I have come upon the clean remains of a mule deer, gnawed to the gleaming bone by a mountain lion.

I’ve seen a Cooper’s Hawk make a kill, talons out.

Decades ago, I demolished a shed, exposing three bristling tarantulas to the sunlight. I watched them fight each other, grappling to the territorial death. It was like watching a miniature black and white fifties sci-fi horror battle in living color.

Once, pushing my baby boy’s stroller I ducked as a regal Harris Hawk swooped in front of us into a nearby creosote, where it tangled with a rattler and carried the writhing twisting thing up to a nearby telephone pole where it hammered its prey into Sonoran sushi.

In a graveyard in the foothills of the Santa Ritas I came across a tombstone epitaph that summarizes the brutal ebb and flow cycling endlessly here.

“As I was you are. As I am you will be.”

This is the land of Boot Hill and sun bleached cow skulls where turkey vultures form into circles above the doomed; halos floating above our common fate.

I knew better than to be joyful about feeding the charming chicks. I so looked forward to their peep-peep-peeping every 2 to 3 hours. Whether it was disease, trauma, too much heat, too little heat, or the absence of their mother the two hatchlings perished within days.

Rather than placing them out among the creosotes for the ravenous to find, we buried them in the corner of our desert garden which we gave over to forsaken foundlings and deceased pets long ago. Ellen made popsicle stick crosses. I wrapped the chicks in paper towels.

A few days later, I was moved to write a post in the manner of a children’s book about a memorial service for the two little dead birds conducted by the many birds who frequent our Hacienda. Seed buffet and suet to follow.

Seemed appropriate it would be officiated by a male red cardinal and attended by the usual cast of Gila Woodpeckers, Cactus Wrens, Gambel’s Quail, Mourning Doves, House Sparrows, Finches, Verdins, Flycatchers, Mockingbirds and assorted Hummingbirds that breeze through here.

And yes,the Rooster next door.

Would I address my guilt?

Señor Screech Owl asked, “Who let the cats out? Who? Who? Who let the cats out? Whoo? Whoo?”

 “I tried my best to keep the little monsters in, amigo.”

“Sure you did”, cawed the skeptical ravens.

“I did.” I insisted.

“Sure you did. Sure you did,” cooed hundreds of Doves. “Sure you did. Sure you did.”

That idea went nowhere. I toyed with word play and parodies and the question of how could I work Prince into my post?

Could “Cactus Wren and Stempy”, a cat and bird duo, appear at the feathered funeral to mew, chirp and chitter their version of the Prince hit “This is what it sounds like when doves cry”?

This is what it sounds like when doves cry How can you just leave me chirping Alone in a world that's so cold? A world that's so cold.

Other songs came to mind. “Alexa, play Jackson Brown. A song called ‘Linda Paloma’.”

“...But the morning brings Strength to your restless wings..… ya da ya da yada… I know all about these things Linda Paloma, Linda Paloma Fly awa-a-a-a-y Linda Paloma, Linda Paloma-a-a-a....”

Yeah...

No.

I even plumbed the poetry of a favorite poet of mine, the poet laureate Rita Dove.  

“Dove”?

Pure coincidence. Instead of finding a perfectly suitable poem to cite I found poetry in her thoughts on what makes a worthy subject for wordsmiths.

“Nothing is too small. Nothing is too, quote-unquote, ordinary or insignificant. Those are the things that make up the measure of our days, and they're the things that sustain us. “ -Rita Dove

Nothing is too small. Even hatchlings?

“The Hatchlings”
by David Fitzsimmons.

She wove the twigs as I passed by
Sat still as a decoy as I passed by
Still in the rain, still in the wind, still in the cold
As I passed by.
Then there were three as I passed by.

On Tuesday our two cats passed by
my frantic fumbling hands.
Between my cursing legs and scurried outside,
to fell the nest,
to torture innocent cat toys.

We rescued the hatchlings so death might pass by.
Gave refuge and death passed by!
Gave feed and warmth and death passed by!

On Friday we found them as still twigs.
Their animus as absent as their mother hen.
And our hearts fell
like a nest batted to the ground.

Our backyard, shaded by mature native trees and filled with regional wildflowers, is visited daily by hundreds of native birds. We set out seed for them, nectar for the hummingbirds, seed “socks” for the finches, suet bricks for the thrashers and Gila Woodpeckers and seed blocks for the Quail and Mourning doves.

A lovely picture of life going on at our neighbor’s hacienda, courtesy of Kathe and Dave Kleineman

We spend much less on feeding the birds than we ever did on movies and we find our feathered guests are far more entertaining.  

I know we are luring prey, creating a feast of easy targets for the nearby Cooper’s Hawks and Harris’s Hawks that swoop through our oasis and scatter the flocks.

But in my old age I find delight in the songs of the finches and the House sparrows, the clucking of the quail and the coo-coo-cooing of the doves. They remind us life is abundant here, even under the watchful eye of the winged apex predators, within earshot of the hooting of the hungry owls up in the nearby trees at dusk and beneath the vultures drifting clockwise marking our time.