Notebook 3: Critters. Start of September.

I won't pretend that the airport fields are some sort of naturalist's paradise. There are plants to look at, of course, as well as some interesting arthropod life (including lots of different spiders and some lovely moths and butterflies), a few birds (mostly crows) that perch on the wire at the top of the fence, and several patches of dirt that exhibit the soft, granular soil frequently left behind by burrowing mammals. However, so far at least, that's been just about all I've seen.

Just across Central Avenue from my site is another fence and beyond that fence is a lovely patch of undeveloped land (I'm not sure who owns it) with bushes and trees and lots of food and hiding places for animals passing through. I have already seen a beautiful buck gamboling through the undergrowth, antlers blazing in the sun, and the pines, cedars, and madrones there are popular perches for birds, including more crows, but also sparrows, various colorful songbirds, and a pair of hawks (probably red-tails, but I'm not prepared to rule out sharp-shins and red-shouldereds). There are no doubt many other animals lurking in the trees and brush, as well as much to make note of about the plants themselves. So, if I was purely interested in cataloging the widest variety of wildlife, I would have picked that side of the street to start with and would be paying no mind to the man-marred field of dry grass and ugly stubble to the west.

Of course, that would have meant ignoring the jets as they carve rippling wakes of wind and sound through the stillness of the sky. It would mean ignoring too-fast cars and too-sleepy drivers heading home, as well as the scruffy, rundown man making the long walk from somewhere through nowhere to get to somewhere else who yells curses at me when I point my camera at him. I told him I was just taking pictures of birds. It was truthful, but not quite the truth.

In fact, I'm not just here to see the birds or the trees or flowers or the bees. I'm here for cigarette butts and tire tracks, plastic wrappers and landing lights. I'm here to see life. Ugly, nasty, contemptible, glorious, tainted, beautiful life.

I saw another bird on the fence top, slender talons at peace among the rusty barbs. It was small and round and brownish. At first I thought it was a sparrow, but there was something regal and predatory about it -- a keenness about the eyes, a cruel curve about the beak. Not sparrow, but sparrowhawk. Its gaze extended over a field made and mowed by human hands and human tools, but it only had eyes for its natural prey: small frightened things that even then were surely skulking, perfectly camouflaged (to my eyes at least) by the brown-gray grasses. As I approached, I recognized it as the smallest falcon in North America. At the same time, it recognized me as a damn nuisance. Head down, wings extended to catch a breeze I didn't even know was there, the kestrel took flight.