Idaho, in May
Observations of a curious wren and a defensive swallow.

End of May. I find myself on the other side of the Black Hills of Idaho, over the endless ragged plains of Wyoming, through the dry canyon country of Utah, and up into the sagebrush grasslands of southern Idaho. I am in the west! It is wild here, like I imagined. Few people. Roads that turn from pavement to dirt to two-track to nothingness. Quiet, solitary springs trickling through deep sagebrush hills and into secret marshlands full of life.
I’m at a dirt cul-de-sac with a couple of small sun pavilions, a place to park the truck, and one outhouse. Here, in the pristine country where one might expect the weary adventurer to find rest, there is no one but me. Better for it, as the cliff swallows and barn swallows really appreciate having the pavilions to themselves.
I am here for only a few days, and I’ve parked my truck beside a pavilion next to a sprawling marshland. Hundreds of swallows swarm the land around my camp, looting the bugs from the sky and chattering incessantly. And among the sea of swallows and sagebrush and buzzing sparrows, a single house wren is singing. He is a beacon from home, jubilant and bubbly. Where, though, might a cavity-nesting wren be nesting in this cavity-less sagebrush desert?
Well, in the cliff swallow’s mud house, it seems.
After four days of watching the swallow and wren battle over the clay nest built within the pavilion and seeing both birds going into the nest, I’ve got not a clue what is happening in there. The swallow spends much of her time cradled in the mud structure, sometimes peaking outside. But each time she leaves, the alert little wren is ready with a beak full of twigs and is entering the cavity, eager to settle in. I imagine him burying the eggs of the swallow with rubbish. The swallow inevitably returns and swoops repeatedly at the hidden wren, rasping angrily before the wren exits and she may return to her disheveled nest.
But time is not on my side; I must leave soon, and so I cannot stay to observe the drama.
The story of the swallow nest will remain a mystery to me.

The harrier hunting grounds stretch before me. I see the male and female raptors rise together into the burly afternoon winds. Against a bulbous sky, the icy blue male drops a vole from above the female and in a single, almost indiscernible moment the female twitches her wings and folds her talons to the sky, snatching the treat with grace. She traces the hillside down to an edge of sagebrush, disappearing into the green.
