Like the barn swallows (Hirundo rustica) and cliff swallows (Petrochelidon pyrrhonota) who likewise have returned, these male purple martins are the vanguard for more to come.  Perhaps a dozen of each species are here, give or take.  They’re picking the best nest sites, establishing a pecking order, and filling the sky with the antics and sounds that speak of summer.

Unlike the western population of martins that nests mostly in natural cavities, the eastern population is almost entirely reliant on human-provided housing.  It’s an interesting bit of behavioral adaptation that took only a short time to present itself.  It began with martins nesting in food bowls and gourds and other structures provided by Native Americans.  How that got started is anyone’s guess.  But the birds liked it and the people liked it, so it continued.

Then when Europeans arrived, they fell in love with these majestic, dark creatures—and no doubt appreciated their high-volume insect consumption—so larger and more elaborate houses were built.  The birds liked it and the people liked it, so it continued.

Over the span of 100-200 years, martins east of the Rocky Mountains had transitioned entirely to nesting in man-made housing.  For the majority of the birds, that’s now the only way they’ll nest.

Despite rumors to the contrary, the eastern population of purple martins does not use human-provided nest facilities in response to competition from European starlings and house sparrows.  Those birds were introduced long after the martins had come to rely on us for communal nesting structures.

(Their population did collapse after the introduction of starlings and sparrows, hence more intelligent home designs were created that would allow martins to enter the nest sites but would keep the starlings out.  And education was important so those managing martin houses would know to keep sparrows out of the cavities and thus allow the martins a better chance at successful nesting.)

There are half a dozen martin houses within walking distance of my home.  The native Blackland Prairie meadows along the eastern shore of White Rock Lake provide the right habitat and the plethora of insects these birds need to brood and raise young.

[As an aside, I just want to go on record as saying that the nitwit who decided martin housing should be white needs fifty lashes with a wet noodle for the photographic affront that creates.  I realize the color helps reduce heat and therefore is good for the parents and the offspring, but still...  Do you know how difficult it is to properly expose a picture of a nearly black bird when it's posed against a bright white house?  It ain't easy!]

There are seven venomous snake species in the DFW metroplex, three of which I’ve seen and photographed around White Rock Lake: western cottonmouth (a.k.a. water moccasin, black moccasin or black snake; Agkistrodon piscivorus leucostoma), timber rattlesnake (a.k.a. canebrake rattlesnake; Crotalus horridus), and copperhead—both the southern copperhead (Agkistrodon contortrix contortrix) and the broad-banded copperhead (a.k.a. Texas copperhead; Agkistrodon contortrix laticinctus).

Texas coral snake (Micrurus tener), western diamondback rattlesnake (a.k.a. Texas diamond-back; Crotalus atrox), massasauga (a.k.a. black rattler or black massasauga; Sistrurus catenatus) and pigmy rattlesnake (a.k.a. ground rattlesnake, eastern pigmy rattlesnake or bastard rattlesnake; Sistrurus miliarius)—the other four venomous species in the area—I have yet to see around the lake.  ‘Yet’ being the operative term.  (I have seen those species elsewhere.)

Before anyone panics, however, I should point out that there are more than 30 species of nonvenomous snakes in the region.  The odds of an everyman seeing a venomous snake remain small; most people will never see more than a nonvenomous serpent.  Unless you’re like me, always looking, always walking, always exploring.  Then the odds change.  Hence my care when in the wild.

Nevertheless, I’ve had close calls.  A cottonmouth sunning in a field dashed across my foot when a couple of dogs approached from the opposite direction (the canines were dragging their human pets behind them); the snake approached before I could move, so I froze in place so I’d be less of a threat.  One of the copperheads I ran into in the fish hatchery had been hiding beneath a log; I kicked the log as is my usual practice, but the snake surprised me by moving toward me rather than away from me—and we came quite close to a physical meeting.

But those experiences cover 20 years of in-depth daily exploration of the park.  I can’t imagine anyone else having the same issue or having to worry about it.  The odds simply don’t support concern, especially since the lake has no existing reports of anyone being bitten by a venomous snake.  Too much human activity keeps the snakes hidden and confined to areas where people don’t go (except people like me).

So why the serpent stats?

The other day when afternoon temperatures soared and a clear sky offered nothing but constant sunshine to bathe the earth, I strolled through the woods along Dixon Branch, flicking ticks off my legs and battling a few early mosquitoes.  Then I reached a riparian clearing and stepped to the edge of the creek.  When I shifted my weight and leaned a wee bit closer to a bramble of vines and thicket, a very large snake erupted from beneath the verdant cover.  It slid down the embankment and hit the water’s surface with a splash.

A diamondback water snake (Nerodia rhombifer).  It had to be six feet/two meters long at least.  And it had been hiding in the brush not an arm’s length away from me.  Oops.

The moment I swung the camera toward where it paused in the water, it took off swimming away from me.

Though nonvenomous, water snakes have a terrible disposition and a tendency to bite first and ask questions never.  Given their size and strength and the backward-angle of their teeth (evolved for catching slippery prey like fish in the water), they can do appreciable physical damage.

It goes without saying that I had been foolish.  Winter’s dearth of snakes—this year being more pronounced than any year since 1983—had lulled me into a false sense of security, or at least a stupid sense of ignorance.  My frightened serpentine friend gave me a surprise that served to remind me that the season has come for snakes, therefore it behooves me to act in accordance with that realization.

Because next time it might not be a nonvenomous reptile and it might not be so inclined to run away from such a nearby and easy mark.

The variegated meadowhawk (Sympetrum corruptum) can survive year-round in Texas if winters are mild enough.  No one can say this winter was mild.

Before each step reaches the sleeping grass drawn in winter’s brown, the telltale crunch of dry leaves and twigs already sounds into the cold air.  Measured footfalls carry me forward ever slowly, ever carefully.  Suspended on a carpet woven by nature and spread in all directions, I walk silently in the night.

Morning has yet to reach this place.  Gilt warms the eastern horizon with the day’s promise as friendly hues of amber and crimson reach into the sky with delicate fingers.  Too soon will the sun visit me, and too soon will it bring forth the hordes of those too frightened of the dark yet too brave in the light.  But for now, at least, the lake welcomes only me.

Perhaps in declaration of the dawn, a gull’s shrill cry echoes across the water.  I listen intently as the penetrating sound flies effortlessly to the opposite shore before returning.  Yet like the rapidly disappearing night, the avian exclamation dies on the cold morning air before its second life is lived.  So it shrieks again.  This time more voices fill the gossamer air, more gulls bellow into faint morning light.

Stirring only a short distance from shore, dark silhouettes of unidentifiable waterfowl tell me some have risen early for breakfast, while similar stirrings in the brush nearby tell me others have not yet taken their first steps of the day.  I look with eyes hungry to consume all that can be seen, and I listen with equally ravenous ears desirous of that which can only be heard.  And I continue walking.

Finally standing upon the pier above gentle waves lapping beneath me, a breeze caresses my cheek with cool affection.  It rushes by in carefree folly and the encounter is over before it begins, my skin left slightly cooler by the invisible lover.  Although I can not see it, I hear it fly along above the water’s surface, scatter a few dead leaves it wrestles along the way, and finally leap ashore not too distant from where I stand.  It’s gone even while I hope for its return, perhaps only to share the moment with such a free spirit.

I start at the nearness of another gull screeching into the night.  But the darkness draws to a close ever more quickly as an eager star claws its way toward daylight.  Over my shoulder toward the east, the sky offers new warmth.  I am reminded of a single candle burning on a desk, a wooden desk in an otherwise unlit home.  Flickering casts amiable shadows on the walls.  Sitting at that desk near to that candle, I picture myself wishing that its flame cease burning for but a moment more.

When I look again to the east, the candle has grown brighter still, and looking carefully toward the water reveals my own shadow drawn on a canvas of shadow.  Too soon will the day break.  I am not ready to leave the night, but I likewise doubt I have a choice.

As the gull again cries even nearer than before, I set my eyes upon its form floating lazily in the water only a stone’s throw away.  The dark can not stop me from seeing it clearly now, from seeing its eyes cast in my direction as its voice calls out one more time.  Harsh and wonderful, I let its greeting pass through me and around me, and I wear it like a blanket on a cool night in front of a campfire.

Is it loneliness, dearest bird, that makes you speak to me?  Or do you hope I have some offering upon which you might dine?  I hope it is the former and not the latter.

For both of us, my gull friend, cry aloud and cry often.  Let your voice shatter the morning like the rising sun.  Call out your desperation for companionship, for but a hint of attention from some other life, and I will share the moment with you here in this place.

Speaking for both of us, cry your heart out.  The lake will welcome your tears like rain.  I will welcome them like a brother.

A veritable smorgasbord of insects and arachnids has appeared.  Flies buzz, wasps and bees flit about, beetles emerge, spiders spin and leap and dash, and where just a few weeks ago the days passed with scarcely a single small critter to enjoy, now it’s difficult to know which one to focus on.

But winter’s dearth always gives way to spring’s bounty, something that plants and insects demonstrate with great passion.  And often one of the first things to appear in abundance is the lady beetle.

Standing on the patio the other evening, only a few moments before sunset, a small beetle rushed along the patio fence.  I ran inside, grabbed the camera, then returned to snap a picture or two.  By that time the little lady had scampered between the slats where it no doubt wanted to grab some rest for the night.

So I was mocked by this ashy gray lady beetle (a.k.a. ash gray lady beetle; Olla v-nigrum) who showed me nothing but buttocks.  I stood patiently hoping the hideout was temporary, but alas the insect nodded off to sleep and stayed put, so a gray moon was all I had to show for the encounter.

Finding this seven-spotted ladybug (a.k.a. seven-spotted ladybird; Coccinella septempunctata) larva came as no surprise.  These beetles start mating and multiplying the moment it’s warm enough outside.

(No, it’s not missing any legs.  The one good photo I took happened to have one leg curled underneath the larva as it changed direction.)

And an adult seven-spotted ladybug (a.k.a. seven-spotted ladybird; Coccinella septempunctata) soaking up sunshine atop a dandelion.  Days may be warm, but nights are still cool enough to require a recharge of heat each morning.  Though that’s changing quickly as quite soon nights will be comfortable and days will be unbearably hot.

As these two multicolored Asian lady beetles (Harmonia axyridis) show, the season is never too early for making babies.  If it’s warm enough to move about, it’s warm enough to mate and multiply.

This multicolored Asian lady beetle (Harmonia axyridis) landed on my shirt as I stood on the patio enjoying warm sunshine one afternoon.  It’s unwise for anything small to enter the house since The Kids take seriously their duty to hunt down and dispatch invaders.  So I plucked the little beetle from my shirt in order to place it on the patio fence.

Then, for the first time in my 40 years, a lady beetle bit me.  The ungrateful invader apparently found the relocation disagreeable and decided to nibble on me as repayment for the move.  The experience was interesting but not painful.  The biggest shock was that it took four decades to experience it given how much time I spend in nature and how often I have run-ins with fauna.

Despite the transgression, I put the beetle on the fence with gentle care so it could go on with its day.  Though I did scold it briefly and warn it that others might not be so forgiving.

Walking across the bridge over Dixon Branch, a spark of color on the concrete railing gave me a moment of pause.  This convergent ladybird beetle (a.k.a. convergent lady beetle or convergent ladybug; Hippodamia convergens) faced into the rising sun to gather warmth.

The number of lady beetle species at White Rock Lake is high, but unfortunately a great many of the numerous examples are from introduced species.  Finding endemics like the ashy gray or the convergent tends to be like finding a needle in a stack of needles.  Nevertheless, they can be found if one looks carefully enough.

Sometimes I wander about nature’s buffet without pausing to savor, pushed along by a jittery need to move.  Walk, stroll, hike, or whatever name it takes at the time.  These are not bad things.  Yet so much hides in my hurrying.

One of my favorite pastimes is sitting.  Sitting and watching, sitting and listening, sitting and absorbing.  And I’ve learned that nature finds comfort in that stillness, in that silence.

So it was as I recently sat upon a hillside with sunshine blanketing the world that a strutting male great-tailed grackle (Quiscalus mexicanus) shared the leisure of the morning with me, shared the warm slope that supported us.

All black birds captivate me.  Subtle beauty painted in fine brushstrokes of darkness.  The energy used in the production of bright colors shunted to the production of extra personality instead.  Under appreciated and oft overlooked.

That my favorite bird is the red-winged blackbird (Agelaius phoeniceus)—and has been since kindergarten—no doubt says a great deal about my adoration for dark avifauna.  No flashy designs and no showy colors; just a sense of simple beauty in which hides a kaleidoscope of awe.

I watched the grackle as he strutted through russet grass speckled with spring’s verdant green.  He grabbed an insect here and there, turned this way and that, carried on with his morning as though I did not exist.

All the while I lost myself in the iridescent rainbow hiding in the black of his plumage.  That people can find these birds anything but beguiling and majestic leaves me speechless.  They are a proud species, and no matter the derision and dislike that surrounds them, they intend to go on being proud.

Then, head held high, chest puffed out with pride, he marched by as though in a parade, as though on display for all the world to see.  Then he was gone, wings carrying him to the next plot of land, the next branch, the next sumptuous delight to include in his breakfast menu.

And I remained where I was, still sitting, still observing, waiting for the next encounter.

And if I try to be someone else?  Dare I be a stranger to some and a familiar to others?  Or a stranger to all?

What comes beckons from yesterday.  No todays sound in its voice, and fear alone sings its lamentable chorus from empty promises woven from tomorrows.

Do I beg for the rest of my life?  What I wait for is the more I seek.  Can you give it to me?  Or would you deny me?

This is who I really am.  Inside skin wrapped taught over the limits of infinity, within packages made of hopeless promise and desperate satisfaction, what breaks me can neither be told nor hidden.  And would you refuse me such a thing?

Or anyone else?

Suffering in a broken lineage of discovery wrought of searches both endless and finite, dare I mention the me revealed is not the me shown?

This is who I really am.  Would you reject me thus or embrace me as one would a brother?

What life has been displayed now seems a trite fakery, an imitation of what was, is, and will be, but what has so far been denied.

Perhaps in fear.  Perhaps in desperation.  Perhaps in longing for conformity and belonging.

It matters not.

In minutes near and far I see unfilled and unfulfilled promises as the lies they are.  This is not for me.  Not now.  Not any more.

So yesterday I checked on the nest.  She was settled down far enough to make her difficult to see, but at least they appear serious about using that location.  I snapped a few pictures to record her presence, then I continued on with a leisurely walk around White Rock Lake.

Near the meadows of Winfrey Point I heard killdeer (Charadrius vociferus) up the hill from me and decided to try for some photos.  Thankfully one of them was being vocal enough to make them locatable.

At that point all I could tell was that the one on the right was talking.  Not vocal as in loud, but vocal in a way that had a “come hither” feel to it.  I experienced an immediate sense of familiarity.  With the one talking and the other one approaching, it reminded me of the hawks from last year.  It didn’t take long to see that it’s that time of year again, the time of year when “go forth and multiply” becomes nature’s motto.

I felt somewhat like a peeping Tom.  Worse even because I was taking pictures.  Silliness aside, there’s something beautiful about nature doing its thing, not at all worried for appearances or prude human sensibilities.

The deed done, he dismounted—albeit not with the grace he intended.  She flinched her wing as he stepped, so off he tumbled.  But he recovered with dignity and walked away as though he’d done her a favor.  I giggled.

She moved in my direction as he moved away.  I was still some distance away from either of them, so I took a slow step toward her thinking I might grab a couple of closer shots before leaving them to their morning.  That’s when something interesting happened.

He ran a short distance back in my direction before turning around.  He watched me.  Closely.

So I took one more slow step toward her.  He then parted his wings enough to show some bright rufous as he took several quick steps away from me.  He added some vocalizations to increase the effectiveness of his display.  Having spent so much time last year documenting their diversionary tactics, I know well enough that showing the flashy rump color is meant to grab the attention of threats.  Only I’d never seen it used without a nest to protect.

And when I took a few steps backward—away from her—he closed his wings yet remained where he stood, and he watched me closely.  Mate guarding.  I’d never seen the behavior before; nevertheless, there’s no doubt he was making himself a more obvious target to distract me from her.

Missouri violet (a.k.a. banded violet; Viola missouriensis)

Roadside blue-eyed grass (a.k.a. dotted blue-eyed grass or southern blue-eyed grass; Sisyrinchium langloisii)

Redstem stork’s bill (a.k.a. pin clover, redstem filaree or common stork’s-bill; Erodium cicutarium)

Shepherd’s purse (Capsella bursa-pastoris)

Crowpoison (a.k.a. crow poison or false garlic; Nothoscordum bivalve)

Common grape hyacinth (Muscari botryoides [sometimes Hyacinthus botryoides])

Henbit (a.k.a. henbit deadnettle or greater henbit; Lamium amplexicaule)

Texas ragwort (a.k.a. Texas groundsel, Texas butterweed or Texas squaw-weed; Senecio ampullaceus); note the crab spider in the lower right corner (no name for the little critter as I didn’t pull enough details in any of the photos to make a positive ID, though I can narrow it down to a genus or two)

[all photos from White Rock Lake]

Domestic Muscovy duck (Cairina moschata); typical female (hen)

Domestic Muscovy duck (Cairina moschata); white breed female (hen)

[domestic Muscovy ducks will always hold a special place in my heart (see this for an explanation); the feral population that lives at White Rock Lake is diverse and energetic, and I can watch them ad infinitum because they fill me with fond memories of childhood; not to mention these birds are full of personality]