The Dragonfly and Spring in the Southwest

 President’s Day on the Dragonfly (flikr images)

Taking advantage of the day off, I arranged with my friend Gail to have lunch and then head out to the Dragonfly Trail, a loop trail of just under 4 miles that’s part of the Ft Bayard trail system. Dragonfly is best known because of the petroglyphs or rock art created by the ancients around 1500AD. I had been on the trail before with Ami and Bob at Thanksgiving, but we couldn’t find the petroglyphs – we didn’t know exactly where to look and appropriately, there’s no “neon arrows” drawing your attention. But Gail knew and so I got to wonder at the magic of the rock art and its staying power for all these many millennia.

The trail itself is a quiet blessing. A mix of grasslands that glow gold and silver in the afternoon sun and woodlands both dry and riparian, the whole cut by a creek. At the right time of year the air will vibrate with winged life in all its micro-habitats. This day, we saw ravens and jays, juncos and a large crowd of western bluebirds. There were probably a couple of other species skulking around the bases of shrubs but since this was not a “birding trip” I stayed my binoculars for the most part.

I could go on, but instead I’ll share a link with you from March’s New Mexico Magazine called My Favorite Places. It’s written by a friend who’s lived here for many more years than I and who has been writing her life here for most of those years. She tells the story of this magical place – one of so many here – far better than I.

Sure Signs of Spring in the Southwest

It seems like Spring is springing early this year. Maybe because last winter and spring we had snows on top of snows so that we went from white to green almost overnight. This year, minimal rains mean that we’re very dry. But Spring will not be thwarted. Sure signs that Spring is making an entrance:

A slight rain brings out the scents of Spring: wet and warming earth, running sap that wafts smells of pinion and juniper across an upturned nose. No longer the cold flat smell of winter.

Bird-song in the early morning dark: not just the ravens’ breakfast conversation, but thrashers and finches and titmouse and juncos—at least those juncos that haven’t already departed on their northward migration – and others are claiming their territories.

On the days that lack the lingering nip of winter and have not yet been blown dry by the spring winds, there is a balm to the air currents that turns me toward the sun like a new leaf.

The shrubby local oak, which I think might be Gray Oak, are losing their leaves: these trees are deciduous in that they lose a portion of their leaves each season, but interestingly, the season of loss is spring, not fall as I’m used to from back East. In another few weeks, they will start showing a greener gray when their new leaves bud out. And I learned that the reason these oak lose their leaves in spring is that they must wait for the new leaves to push them from their branch tips.

Other trees and shrubs that are more classical in their shedding and budding seasons are already getting fuzzy on the tips: the cottonwoods are showing, so are other hardwoods. Blooming trees are blushing with Spring colors. A few more warm days and not-so-cold nights and the town will be “in the pink” with Serviceberry and Redbud and other vibrant Spring celebrants.

No longer can I tell the difference between the shes and the hes among the Mule deer groups: most of the males have lost their antlers; the mature males certainly have, although there are a few spikers who still have their “they’re-my-very-first-and-I-want-to-keep-them-a-little-longer –please-can-I-mom?” single, finger-length antlers. I’m imagining their plea since they are still moving with their family group that includes the dominant doe (or is that a he?), a younger doe or two, one to several yearlings and last summer’s crop of babies.

And speaking of shedding, Nutmeg is starting to get that patchy look: every spring, she sheds that inner layer of insulating fur, taking on a slightly mangy look. She hates to be brushed. Maybe I just don’t have the right brush yet, but I’ve tried several types with similar results—she looks at me sideways and heads for the bedroom. So she walks around with tufts of fur sticking out like a bad case of bed-head. I think I should put a sign on her that says, “I’m not contagious. I’m just shedding.”