We Don’t
Have Robins Here
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We don’t have Robins here. We do have a similar bird,
similar in coloring, larger, a Rufous-collared Thrush. Unlike the Robin, herald
of spring, the Rufous-collared Thrush is here year-‘round. He’s a tyrant of the Lantana bushes with
their multi-colored flowers and seeds like blackberries. He’s a bit of a bully,
plowing out his territory with swagger.
Ah, Spring. While up North it is snowing one day and melting
into the 70s the next day, here in Etzatlan, we have entered our hottest two
months, roughly mid-April through mid-June, when the thermometer shoots daily
into the 90s. I’ve been here ten years and cannot get used to it. Eagerly, like
a little girl waiting for Christmas, I latch onto any sign, however
folklore-laden, of the coming rainy season and relief.
I’ve seen a pair of Black-bellied Whistling Ducks. The
Rainbirds have hung their purse-like nest onto a seemingly fragile branch of
the Jacaranda tree. The doves of all varieties are shamelessly cuddling and
nesting. Every evening the Swallows swoop through the skies, dive-gulping
mosquitoes. Those horrid, irritating, little black flies are everywhere, most
especially seeking out eyes, noses and mouths, mine and yours and all the animals.
We don’t have Crows here but we have their cousins, the
Tenates. Same thing, Crow cousin, pushy, likes glitter and bling. No Jays but
we have a most delightful Black-throated and White-throated Magpie Jays, large birds, beautiful, with long blue tails, twice
as long as their bodies, also a Spring bird.
Last week I had a Real Scare. I awoke to Silence. We don’t do Silence here. We do cheeps and
chirps and whistles and screeches and screams. That’s just the birds. Everyone
must raise their voice to greet the morning, including the neighborhood
Roosters, cackling chickens, the Donkey across the Arroyo and the pair of
Peacocks down the way.
Even the air was still, stolid. Leaves might have been
painted on the trees, not a wiggle. Even the overloaded cane trucks did not lumber
past on the highway, on the way to the processing plant in Tala.
Trying to ignore the Silence, I got dressed and went out for
my morning walk with Lola. Lola followed me to the gate and refused to go
further. In her scruffy dog-language, she said, “No way. Too scary.”
I love my early morning walk with Lola. I count on the
antics of the birds. Every day the same, every day different, every day a
delight. The Morning of Silence, I saw nary a bird. Back home I sat with
morning coffee in hand and scanned my back yard. No birds in sight.
Silence. No birds, no roosters, no donkey, no peacocks. My
uneasiness lasted until late morning when the Mourning Doves bravely came out
of hiding, followed by the little Quail Doves and the ever-present sparrows and
those tiny little gray fluttery birds with the soft “cheep-cheep-cheep”. It was
afternoon before I saw any Tanagers or the more colorful birds.
I suppose I’ll never solve the mystery of the Morning of
Silence. I feel relieved to wake to morning racket. You might ask me if I feel
the same way once the Cicadas come out.
Meanwhile, it is spring. All the birds are singing, especially
the ones that sing a song that sounds like “shooba-dooba-dooba-doo”. Flowers
are blooming. Jasmine fills the air. Trees drop pollen in a haze of yellow dust.
The neighbor’s lawn mower is growling through grass. I sneeze heartily. A
slight breeze of undulating hips dances the top tree leaves. Joy is in the air.
What’s not to love!
Sondra Ashton
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