Another Monday, another round of deadly gale-force winds.
They began just after 8:30 this morning, far earlier than yesterday, than predictions, than anything like our usual spring-winds norm.
Of course, there is no “norm” now.
All around us, the fires continue to spread, the giant monster to the south/southeast of us having partially jumped the highway yesterday and begun racing northeast, threatening villages whose residents have only just returned after evacuation from another wildfire now mostly contained. To the west, the fire in the Jemez has ballooned to some 40,000 acres, and is within two miles of the town where the national nuclear labs are sited, to say nothing of the three Pueblos it’s been threatening for days (although the media cover only the former, not the latter).
And the forecast remains absolutely, unutterably arid: not a trace of any viable chance of rain in sight for the foreseeable future.
As we watch the smoke roll in from around us once again, it’s increasingly hard to hang onto hope.
And by the very same token, it also seems that hope is all we have now.
And so we take its markers where we find them, and are grateful.
Wings walked outside yesterday to find a tiny male black-chinned hummingbird on the ground next to the wheelbarrow filled with firewood. He apparently had hit the window, and to all purposes, appeared dead; no breath, no perceptible heartbeat. Wings picked him up and literally breathed life into his nostrils (which are at the base of their long, dagger-like beaks), then brought him upstairs to me. I held him safe, quiet, and warm for fifteen minutes or so while he blinked up at me, his heartbeat and respiration both strengthening steadily again. When he indicated that he was ready to try the outdoors again, I took him out to the feeder, where he initially tried to drink while seated in my palm. It wasn’t especially workable, so I gently set him on the edge of the feeder, caught him as he tipped, and watched him fly over to the other one six inches away, where he began to drink.
I went back indoors, returning a few moments later to check on him . . . and found him hanging upside down, talons hooked tightly around the feeder rail and hanging on for dear life. He allowed me to turn him back upright, sat in my hand for a second, then buzzed his wings and flew on his way. He’s been back to the feeder multiple times since, both yesterday and now today.
It was the highlight of the day for us both.
Why? Because when we are surrounded on all sides by destruction and death, not merely new but ongoing, to save a life indigenous to this fragile habitat so badly under threat now seems a small triumph, a victory of sorts, tiny, yes, but eminently worthwhile. And it is these small successes that foster hope for our world as a whole.
The subject of this week’s photo meditation is another example of such a success, albeit one for which we can take relatively little credit. it’s the largest of the pear trees, one that, about three years ago and in all defiance of the drought that already had this land in its death grip, produced about a thousand individual pears. We harvested all we could, gave away a great many, made sweet, spicy pear butter with the rest and gave away much of that, too. And yet, every recent year that the tree has blossomed, we have always had to worry that it will be its last.
We were particularly concerned about it this year. After all, we have dead aspens already; dead stands of red willow, too. We’re not sure that the weeping willows or elms will make it, and it was only yesterday that the larger fire maple began to leaf at long last.
But this pear tree, this sturdy little child of an alpine desert earth? It flowered a week ago. In full. The night before, it was only buds; in the morning, every branch and twig looked like this. Wings captured this photo six days ago, in one of those rare moments when the raging winds had shifted and blown the smoke out of our small space, leaving a bright blue sky behind the white blossoms.
Now, on this day, there is far less white — fr fewer blossoms, and petals too. Part of that is due to the winds, stripping the fragile flowers of their pale fringe and sending the petals flying. Mostly, though, it’s due to the fact that the leaves are now thriving, spreading, taking up space.
In the face of the dust and dirt and flames and smoke, in the face of disintegration and destruction and death on all sides, this is still an earth in leaf and flower.
With a little luck, by fall, it will be one in full fruit, as well.
Like the hummingbird, this land still breathes, its heart still beats. That alone is cause enough for hope.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2022; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.
