Morning visitors: A crowd showed up for brunch. On the buffet were the juniper, some grass, the few remaining oak leaves and the tender tips of the younger piñon pines. You’ll notice that there is a stark line on the juniper tree. And the cause of that demarcation – the deer can’t stretch her neck any higher. There are times you’ll see the deer standing on their hind legs and stretching up into the tree to grab a bite, but because they can’t maintain that stance for long, they don’t prune the trees quite so vigorously and cleanly. But drive through this neighborhood and notice that all edible trees have high-water, or more aptly, high-deer lines. You can, however, cruise other areas that are less populated and you see fewer deer-pruned trees. Do the deer just prefer the higher-priced spread? Are our junipers and cedars more appealing to the gourmet mule deer? Or is it that there are more deer here than there is browse? The trees and bushes are more noticeably trimmed this year than last, following a season bearing more fawns than last. Where there’s food, there are babies. A natural phenomena. Or natural if it were occurring without human interference and was allowed to balance itself over seasons. But that doesn’t happen here. Here, people feed the deer. So the deer are doing what all creatures do in times of plenty – they have been multiplying. And now, it’s winter and there’s not enough to eat. And so the trees and shrubs are fodder, stripped to the point of damage. Where does it end, other than badly?
But they are cute and interesting to watch. Here, twins scratch twin itches.
On a different note, the avian patterns are changing to greet the changing season. The western bluebirds are as garrulous as ever, but the tone of their conversation has changed. Until recently, they gossiped in flocks, genially and at length; now they argue and grouse as they stake out territories in preparation for their mating dances. The most adventurous of the migrants are showing up, singing from the tree tops on the sunny days and huddling among the branches on cold, wet days, silent and perhaps wishing they were still basking in their winter get-aways. And those who stay all year are carrying out their own migration from the base of the trees to the tips, reversing their fall trip to the cover of the ground. Bendire thrashers are singing, often from trees across the road from each other. They liven up my walks, just as I eavesdrop on the bluebirds.
And yet, although the birds are tuning their spring songs and the trees are budding up, the snows have held all in abeyance, waiting. Spring is not yet here. It may look like spring is arriving, and it may sound so, but it does not yet smell so. So far, the air still has a cold crisp flavorless edge to it. On damper days, especially at dawn, the juniper’s turpentine tang is prominent. But the softer perfume of spring is still absent. Soon, though; soon.
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