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BLUEBIRDS ON THE MEXICAN BORDER
Carol Sanger
It’s December 26, 34 degrees, and the dogs are barking. A helicopter hovers over the hill behind the house, the one separating me from Mexico. It rises and falls in a bobbing fashion so rotors separate branches to flush out people hiding under the trees.
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I grab a jacket, go outside, and see a small group of migrating bluebirds–orange chests and russet lapels–dart from tree to branch, pluck tart berries from the pyracantha. I sit in the scarce sun, watch them skate on the bird bath and wonder where they’ll go next when the quiet is shattered by a tiny machine gun of clicks as the resident hummer swoops in to drive the bluebirds away from his feeder. And the helicopter changes pitch. It banks left to run rangeland along the highway. I know they’re out there somewhere, sheltering in another tree. I try to remember my bird class: How do birds survive this cold?