In the Twilight Zone

 

In the Twilight Zone

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I’ve become an early morning person. I don’t know if I’ve always been one. Most years of my life I simply rolled out of bed to do what needed doing without question. Now I’m a woman of leisure. I’ve not had a clock in my bedroom for years. I wake to the light.

To the light and to the ever-loud, greet-the-sunrise, bird-cricket-frog-donkey-chicken chorus. The birds sing full-throat through the half-hour of pre-dawn light followed by a silence as the sun rises. Then they go about their birdy business-as-usual, noisily.

One morning last week I awoke to the light—and—to silence. No chorus. The sun rose. We don’t do silence here. We do birdsong. I lay in bed and listened hard. My old ears heard—nothing.

I went out for my morning walk. My dog Lola went to the gate with me, stepped out, said, “Not today. Nothing doing.” Uncharacteristically, she turned and went back to her doghouse. That was spooky.

Nothing moved. Nothing sang or whistled or chirped or crowed. Not the mourning doves. Not the partridge doves. Not the hummingbirds. Not the twenty or fifty brands of colorful songsters. Not the neighbor’s chickens. Not even the peacocks or the donkey across the arroyo.

I want to tell you, that was frightening. For two more hours I sat and watched my silent and unmoving back yard, wondering what was wrong. Something was wrong. Tension weighted the air.

Not only were there no ever-present birds, not even a sparrow, I saw no butterflies, dragonflies, ubiquitous bees, bugs of unknown name, lizards (no lizards!) or iguanas.

This was the morning of the big earthquake between La Paz and Culiacan. There isn’t exactly a direct shot from there to here, from the water to the coast, and south, up over mountains. Maybe there was no connection. Maybe. (Cue eerie background music.)

Morning rolled close to noon before the mourning doves began to flutter through the trees, followed by a few hummingbirds. One by one, seemingly cautiously, life came back to my yard.

Not only was I faced with the mystery of no birdsong, no birds, a reluctant dog, but when I mixed my bread, my dough refused to rise. Maybe there was no connection. Maybe. I saved the dough by patting out slabs of cowboy bread.

Speaking of bread, does anyone have Blue’s fry bread recipe. I used it for years. Lost in the move to Mexico. I’d love to have it again. If we survive the barrage of quakes, when my snowbird friends return, I’ve promised a feast of Indian tacos with fry bread. I can use my own best recipe. But I’d rather have Blue’s.

You all have a good day now. I’m going out to the back yard to sit under the jacaranda tree, listen to the birds and watch grass grow. Because I can.

Sondra Ashton

Looking out my back door

July, 2026

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