Essays

Wild On The Prairie: Temporal Observations

Brushpiles
May 14, 2000

Country living allows the homeowner to attract wildlife in ways not suitable for city dwellers. For one thing, in the country It is not terribly out of place to have a brush pile. The brush pile at the Gone Native Arboretum is woven among several mesquites situated next to an open meadow that has been reclaimed from the mesquite brushland. A "false tree", the dead branch of an old elm, sticks up in the center.

Several public agencies extol the virtues of attracting wildlife to a garden through the use of brush piles. If the pile is stacked loosely with smaller twigs arranged over the top of larger limbs, a multi-roomed "critter hut" is formed. The false dead tree is optional, but it provides a much-used perch for birds. The brush pile is a cool, dark, tangled, unchartable recess. Who knows what is there at any one time?

Orange-yellow eye glaring, curved beak sneering, the Curve-billed Thrasher announces the arrival of an early morning passerby, its loud "Taxi! Taxi!" call bold and brassy. The thrasher does not budge from the false dead tree until the visitor is ten feet away, and then he only drops to the other side.

One by one, white-crowned sparrows that live here during the winter pop up on the far side of the pile. If the observer does not move, they will begin to sing their soft songs. "Today is a good day," is the message of the song. Three pyrrhuloxias, the red-vested male leading the way, fly away with a slapping, flapping wing-sputter.

Two mockingbirds skulk from room to room, visible only through gaps in the small twig roof. They peer up suspiciously each time a new window is reached. "No, I am not leaving," I mutter to them. Three sibling cactus wrens come from around the back, curious as always. "What is causing all the ruckus?" One gives the species' rocky clattering chuckle. "It is only ol' what's-his-face. No big deal."

The morning air has a slight chill, and high cirrus clouds stream overhead. Their Baja moisture overrides the Gulf of Mexico moisture carried by the mild winds from the southeast. Dew sparkles on just-budded mesquite leaves. The agaritas by the shade house are blooming, and their sweet smell washes over the scene. Mornings such as this promise an afternoon thundershower. Is another rain coming, so soon after the Good Friday rains?

I hear a twiggy clatter, and two southern prairie lizards teeter over the basket-like roof of the brush pile. After a short chase, one stops to turn around and do “push-ups”, its blue throat and sides of its belly iridescent in the golden early morning sunlight. The other lizard understands the territorial imperative, and flattens down on the largest branch, basking.

Something else moves on the floor of the brush pile. I hear faint scratching but see nothing. I wait, hoping to hear more. What could it be? Might it be a packrat that has taken up residence? Or is it a snake? Or might it be the fox that has taken to sleeping under the place where three big limbs meet? I check the little animal trail that leads to the heart of the brush pile. No packrat droppings – just as I thought. Not with the fox there. There is a small scat pile, glistening with moisture, right in the trail a few feet to the southwest. The fox does not like to mess his bed. "I am sorry," I tell the fox. "I will move on, in a minute, and then you can go back to sleep."

Approaching from the northwest, the harrier does not see me behind the head-high pile of sticks. The hawk must visit the brush pile regularly, hoping to startle something into quick flight. Then again, it may be perfectly aware I am there (having seen the pyrrhuloxias fly) and hopes to use me like a hunting dog, benefiting from the effect of my disturbing presence. It swoops low to the ground, out of sight, but then comes right over the top, and with the twitch of a few wing feathers, veers not more than five feet away.

The brush pile has been in the same spot for twenty years. Every year, I add a few more sticks and twigs. Its floor is a carpet of luscious mulch. Tiny twigs, dried mesquite leaves, and just this morning, three big puffball mushrooms as big as softballs push up. A big stink beetle clambers on one. I know they nibble on fungal mycelia that can be found coating rotting vegetation, but do they actually gnaw on mushrooms? A big millipede comes up from the other side and stops dead in its tracks when it meets the beetle. Both remain motionless as I watch.

Becoming bored, I continue examining the innards of the brush pile. Three colors of lichen live on the branches: an orange species glows from deep within, a whitish one flickers from the mid-level branches and a gray species is on the branches closest to me. “Oh, my word -- moss!” Its shining neon green sparkles beside the fox doorway. I kneel and reach out to caress its softness. Crouching in a position of supplication, I give thanks. When I arise, my heart is singing as I walk away.