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.

A spiky, ornate gem sat amid an expansive web projecting from the fence, arresting me in my tracks. I feel privileged whenever this decorative creature, the spinybacked orbweaver, sets up camp to ensnare tiny insects in my backyard.

During April, the peak of spring migration in South Texas, one often spots a summer, scarlet, or, occasionally, a western tanager resting on one of our low branches—to the delight of photographers unable to convince fluttery warblers to strike a pose. We are indeed fortunate hosts. In much of their nesting and wintering grounds, tanagers…

A cartoon animal springs to mind when I watch this round-headed, needle-billed, tuxedoed bird that, walking on pink stilts, rises above its fellow shorebirds probing the mud for edible treats.