The snowy egret slipped its yolk-yellow feet, toes first, into waters of the saltmarsh and strode across, stealthy and alert, ready to strike.
Author: M. Kathy Raines
Aah, nothing compares to the soothing, pulsing choirs of frogs, crickets and geckos of an evening! Geckos? Yes, some of those chirps, squeaks and clicks may come from Mediterranean house geckos that hunt along our fences and bricks as they entice mates and defend turf.
The long-tailed, striped lizard, its limbs splayed out like a gecko’s, suddenly materialized on the porch as I swiveled back from watering the birds.
We lifted a small log, one with critter-enticing voids and cracks, exposing an expected assortment of busy creatures—beetles, ants, silverfish and roly-poly’s. But, amid them, to my surprise, squirmed a dark, glossy worm. What is an earthworm doing in a Harlingen yard in this arid climate? I thought. I rarely see worms here.
“Hush, little baby, don’t say a word! Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird!” begins a cherished lullaby. Yet, one wonders: why would anyone buy a mockingbird when its melodies tumble from treetops for all to enjoy? And the folk song apparently originated in the South, the mockingbird’s original realm.
Its rich geometric patterns of blue, yellow, orange, green and black recall delicately inlaid stones in Zuni jewelry or a tinted cut-glass pendant. I wonder where this elegant creature has been hiding the 40 some years I’ve lived in the Valley, but then realize it is I who have been inobservant.