12/26/2023

The chorus of birdsong here in the Sonoran desert is nothing like the one in Iowa. It is familiar despite how little I actually listened when I lived here. The low cry of the mourning dove. The sharp cheep of the quail. The rattle of the curved bill thrasher.

Dogs bark in the distance. But the shooting range is silent. The rain deterred target practice, I imagine. And now perhaps it is closed for the holidays.

Further up the road that leads back to this secluded valley, they have bladed another many acres of desert. The sign says, “New Homes!” There is no mention of the murdered lizards and evicted jack rabbits, the thousands of residences destroyed by the bulldozers, the cacti smashed and discarded, the secret trails creatures of all kinds once followed through the sagebrush.