April 18, 2013

Our male Mallard flies in quacking on the Stockpond–what has happened to his mate? He swims around, calling for her, but she hasn’t been here for a week and is not to be seen again. He’s alone in the cold, and oh¬†is it cold, below freezing. He doesn’t mind the water of course, but it’s no fun to me to be getting the usual drenching out of the hydrant getting up the first set of irrigation¬†… both M’llard and I should be on the Sea of Cortez, or I in Alamos. Painting. Writing. The duck, though, if he is a truly wild one, will likely be heading north or finding a cooler spot in the New Mexico high country within a few weeks. Right now this one is plenty cool enough.

A few Marsh Wrens in that newly grazed pasture of last evening’s herd, and not a few Savannah Sparrows, which are less secretive in the cold air. A Gray Flycatcher lets me approach almost to it on the barbed wire fence at the edge.