A Great Egret–pure water-reflected magnificence in The Stockpond–hunts delectables in a lively manner for it must have worked up quite an appetite by the time it found this unlikely wet and muddy place.
Rusty Harrier, owl-like in movement, aspect, and silence, from far off comes directly to me. I stand still, and it veers at almost the last moment it could, but only to correct its course so it doesn’t hit me in the face.
The big, late day bug hatches continue and as I do the last work of the day with all those insects also barely missing my face, the sun goes. I still have wheel lines to move, but it is not a bad thing to be out with such chores that shouldn’t be left for tomorrow: the sight of the Galiuros in their evening smoking jackets of mulberry and peach is a rich reward for the overtime. I am descended on by doves, who come to The Cienega just before complete night.
A few minutes rest at The Stockpond is in order before I tackle the much longer road to where I’m now living. I drive up to the water and turn off the pickup engine. The quiet is wondrous. Crickets murmur around the edges where Egret had spent the daylight hours, a single Coyote woof-barks far off, for all the world like a dog. Half Moon over all, in the balmy dark and a breeze that is only enough to be called a caress.