Hope is the thing with flowers...

May 12.  With apologies to Emily Dickenson. As previously mentioned, we are lucky to live close to a couple hundred acres of Open Space, managed by the City of Albuquerque for the benefit of her residents, both human and other animal. Most people don't know that we have the iconic naturalist Aldo Leopold to thank for the concept of within-city open space. Leopold, who is revered for the gorgeous and prescient writings from his Wisconsin farm (Sand County Almanac, and others), is also credited for creating the first wilderness area in the United States (the Gila, here in New Mexico). But lesser-known is that he also lived in Albuquerque for a time, where he sat on the City Council, seeding and cultivating the idea that city residents need the outdoors too. We now have some 29,000 acres of open space in and around the city to enjoy https://www.cabq.gov/parksandrecreation/open-space.

Knowing about the source or not, Albuquerque residents have fully integrated Leopold's concept into their daily lives. In our nearby acres, any season, any day, and nearly any time, one can find birders, dog walkers, gardeners, joggers, lovers, and families partaking of the opportunity to commune with nature. Hawks, songbirds, and waterfowl find summer nesting and winter sustenance throughout the area. Coyotes roam and howl at night. Toads sing for a mate in spring.  In late fall and winter, the fields are deliciously filled with the sandhill cranes so loved by Leopold (and me!).  But throughout the year, one creature can always be found.

She never moves, never changes her steadfast gaze from the precise spot where the sun, or the full moon, will rise over the Sandia Mountains. Her stance is proud and self-contained. She is, of course not a living being, but a wonderful metal sculpture that some insightful human placed at the corner where nearly everyone passes. I feel compelled, as I'm sure others do, to simply stop and watch the mountains with her for a while, often with my hand on her back.  I sometimes find a bit of alfalfa, in her slightly open mouth - an offering from another passerby.  And, she is seasonally decorated with ribbons or flowers woven into her mane and tail -- daisies in spring, red white and blue in July, sunflowers in fall, holly in winter.  But the sight of her current regalia went straight to my heart.  

Pink Moonwalk in Open Space

April 8, 2020.   So, I get up most days well before sunrise.  These days, that’s between 430 and 5 am. As a young biologist working on cranes, I had to be out on the (often frozen) crane roosts before dawn to collect data.   Ever since that time, I start feeling anxious, like I’m late for work or something (really!) if I see even a hint of dawn and I’m still in bed.  

Anyhow, last night was the Pink Super-moon — the closest the moon will be to earth this year.  I have no idea why they call it pink (it isn’t) but it was sure bright and absolutely stunning. I feel that it is compassionate of the moon to come so close to us at this dark time in our world.  Ed and I walked on our acequia last night (it’s a ditch, in New Mexican dialect — used for the irrigation that still nourishes farmland in the Rio Grande Valley).  Anyhow,  we are gifted with an acequia right out our back gate, and it provides us with so much happiness:  car-free dog walking, views of the neighbor's back yards, fruit tees, cottonwoods, busy ants, bird chorale, coyotes, nesting horned owls.  The last is what Ed we ventured out to check on last night.   We have a nearby pair who MUST have young ones by now, but so far, we see only the female, quietly vigilant on the nest, and occasionally the male, perched on his hunting perch nearby.  

But oh yeah — this morning!   Up before 5, the moonlight flooding the house. I decided to change up the morning routine of yoga/meditation upstairs and go for a moonwalk in the nearby Open Space, the perfectly-named 200-plus acres of irrigated farmland owned by the City of Albuquerque. It is maintained for birds, gardening, walking, cycling, horseback riding and a community garden.

Our dog, Pilgrim was shocked but delighted  (if a bit sleepy ) to be suited up for his walk so early.   We ventured out, feeling our feet, smelling the damp earth, the sweet fragrances from wisteria and apple blossoms, and who-knows-what-else in Pilgrim’s nose.  Moon shadows strolled along beside us.  Just the two of us and the trees — bare limbs sillouetted against the moonglow.  So quiet.  Light changing ever so slowly.  As we head south, we begin to see cars crossing the Montano Bridge — lucky (or not ) souls still going to work.  As we pass the shuttered  church at the corner, a city garbage truck roars out of the shadows. Rumbling and snorting, like some ancient mastodon come to life, it lifts the giant bin overhead, as if it were a tree that needed uprooting. Pilgrim, ever bold and curious, rarely afraid — was impressed into momentary stillness. I caught a glimpse of the single man operating the machinery inside the cab, and gave silent thanks for his service in this unsettling time.  

We round the corner and head back to the north, the moon behind us now.   Dawn light lavenders the sky ahead.  We hear water moving,  and see the moonlight reflected on a flooded alfalfa field ahead.   We stop, watch a few mallards starkly inked against the sky, coming in for a delightfully wet picnic. We see our first humans walking towards us.  We head home.