Backyard Nature

I watched the hummingbirds fly furiously toward a dish of sugar water, flitting and diving at a speed almost too fast to witness. They hung back, suspended in mid-air, contemplating how to beat the others to the dish. They battled and sped into one another with such ferocity I was sure one of them would be knocked to the ground, like a boxer caught off-guard by a perfectly placed left hook.

I observed the hummingbird show from the comfort of my lounge chair on the portal (back porch), and then turned to look out at the tufts of dry-grass on little mounds and the cacti and the splashes of purple flowers and the mountains against the backdrop of the vast blue sky.

My husband and I observed this scene courtesy of friends who recently moved to Santa Fe. I have seen many beautiful places in my travels over the years, but I’ve never, at least as far as I can remember, been in a home where I was so immediately and completely connected with nature, where gazing out the kitchen window could easily take up the entire day.

Our friends warned us that the dry air masks the heat’s intensity (temperatures can reach 90 degrees or more) and that at 7,000 feet elevation, we might be challenged running and hiking in thin air. They noted that August is monsoon season, and the downpours and lightening storms arrive with a vengeance and with little or no warning. I heeded their advice and packed my sunscreen and tank tops and rain jacket and walking and running shoes and pocket umbrella, and tossed my digital camera, journal and copy of “All the King’s Men” into my carry-on bag. I was prepared to explore, record and relax during our Southwestern adventure.

Our friends’ home was a mud-brown adobe style, blending into the New Mexican landscape. We were told there are rules about these things, that one couldn’t, for example, paint an adobe-style home neon green. They also have rules about fences (not allowed) and streetlights and bright porch lights (also not allowed), so there is no interference with the popular evening pastime of star gazing.

The first night of our stay we got a first-hand understanding of the value of the no-bright-light rule. As the sun set and the sky grew darker, stars began to appear, beginning with a few flickers before covering the sky in a blanket of brilliance. The next night we were treated to an equally spectacular, though far different demonstration. We saw and heard the first inklings in the distance—a flash, a crackle, a rumble—and watched on the portal until our friends got nervous.

They told tales of people who’d been hit by lightening miles from a storm. We decided to head inside and watch from the comfort and safety of our chairs in front of the floor-to-ceiling (closed) window. The flashes of jagged light came fast and furious, followed by earsplitting booms. Later I was strangely comforted by the crackling and the sound of the rain and hail coming down on the roof as I nodded off to sleep.

As much as I enjoy discovering new places, I also look forward to coming home. Though the Southwest is beautiful, New England is beautiful in its own way. We may not have mountains and cacti in our backyard, but we have other things. Our bed of perennials—Dahlia and Tickseed and Lavender—are in full, glorious bloom. And though they’re not as speedy as the Santa Fe hummingbirds, I seem to remember our own little bird not so long ago, flitting onto our porch, building its nest right outside my kitchen window.

This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2007