October Trails

Whether horseback or afoot, cowboys tend to enjoy their outdoor surroundins’. I’ve known a few cowhands who enjoy birdin’ (bird watching) as they ride their spread and work their cattle, spring and fall. I knew one that even tended some blue bird nest boxes he’d attached to fence posts way out on the open range. Since he’s carryin’ binoculars anyway, he may even carry a Peterson’s Bird Guide in his saddlebag. The diversion of birdin’ gives him another reason to appreciate the seasons and notice his grand surroundins’ as he rides the trail.

Well, the trail this morning is carpeted with the discards of summer, like frosted flakes for breakfast. The breeze is holding her breath lightly and among the russet of rufous-reds are hints of yellow green, and my horse is feelin’ his oats. My old stoved-up hip from earlier days aches less in the rising sun of azure sky and scattered puffs of cotton vapor. Carrying a pocket full of blessings and following my breath past rail fences, dark-eyed juncos twitter and flash their tails just ahead of me—and I covet the solitude of circling these woods.

Before reaching the feeding grounds of corn fields and pecan groves, somewhere on the other side of the north pasture, a flock of crows stir up a riot and shout obscenities at a day-sleeper, a poor horned owl trying to settle in for a day’s rest. He was snuggled up against the scaly trunk in perfect camouflage, at least so he thought, until being persecuted by those of dark temperament.

And then there they are again—some hanging upside down—a half a dozen indecisive goldfinches, now dressed in winter tans. They do the dipsy-doodle in front of my horse, from clumps of fuzzy milkweed to fluffy cottontails of thistle. And past the nettles on the other side of the willows, song sparrows volley notes on crystal bells then dash in erratic flight diving for cover in the bramble-berries near the creek.

Riding on beneath the sycamores, there is a tasting room of claret poke bushes hang heavy with purple clusters, inviting waxwings and thrushes and the occasional mockingbird. Nearby, puffed up lark sparrows with hatpin breasts love the big old tangled elderberry, a feeding magnet for mockers and phainopeplas.

Spying out the edge of the open field, two most unusual aerial shows are in progress. One consists of micro-filaments drifting in the morning sun. Buoyant spider webs drift like cable- crossings hemstitching sunrays to shadows with silken strands of opaque silver threads, migrating to any destination or twig… truly a unique sight. And also, the woods are filled with emerging subterranean or dry-wood termites. They erupt seasonally and fill the air with glittering propellers, like tiny helicopters, seeking more dead wood to infest and recycle. Yellow-rumped warblers are having an acrobatic heyday and the air is filled with their ‘cheet, cheet’! They are like a kid in a candy store and I somehow sense their joy and satisfaction!

Crossing the creek, the marsh is busy near the tulles, a conservatory for mallard voice training; they yak and laugh at soprano mockingbirds and hand-carved wooden duck calls. Annoyed, a great blue heron rises languid and liquid and hang-glides to the silent distant shore. Soon he is pointing his proboscis in a steely stare at some movement in the muddy shallows.

I quietly dismount in the shadows, but no matter how sneaky or quiet I am, those sharp-eyed wood ducks catch my silhouette in the brushy woods and fly up whining like fourth-of-July rockets, warning every creature of my presence. Ah…but, two northern shovelers stay and feed, allowing me to focus my binocs on their beauty; they put on a show by spinning around each other like tops.

Well… I left the old wood stove cracklin’ but it beckons my return to stir the coals and heat up another cup of coffee. Funny how October days and tawny leaves of frosted flakes, migrating warblers and heron tracks in the mud always seem new—evoking another encore. So, I’ll ride this trail again and again before the muted light of winter, or my old gimpy hip can’t sit in the saddle no more.

Ed Keenan © 11-02

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