Dispatch from the Viewing Blind

First of all, I can assure you that we are at very little risk here within.  Although the dinosaurs move freely about the exterior of the blind, I am confident that its rugged construction is entirely adequate to keep them at bay.  The viewing portals are composed of a sturdy thickness of glass, fully transparent and yet strong enough to repel any conceivable theropod assault.  Furthermore, the walls are even stronger by far, entirely proof against any dinosaurian attempt to enter.  And so is the roof, in case any of the creatures find their way up to the top.  (Occasionally they do, of course; there isn't any practical way to prevent it.)  Once in a great while we will hear one hammering with sharp blows against the upper wall, or observe an impact as an over-active smaller theropod accidentally caroms against one of the glassy portals.  But the truth is that they largely ignore us, being intent upon their own business, and have never made any determined effort to gain access to the interior.  For our part, we are perfectly comfortable here inside, and can readily look out in all four directions to view the activities of the local denizens.

I can report that the dinosaur lineages that survived the unfortunate incident with the asteroid some millions of years ago are once again diverse and thriving.

The blind is surrounded by a low sward of graminoid monocotyledons, upon which the saurians prance and stride and make their displays.  On one side grow a couple of Betula trees and other large woody dicots, their drooping and feathery foliage sometimes rustling and swaying in the balmy breezes of this era.  On the other side there is a small pool surrounded by flat stones and bearing a luxuriant growth of aquatic plants - Azolla, Typha, and Eichhornia.  The last has begun to bloom - flowering plants are indeed abundant in the landscape of this age - and its pale violet blossoms present a weird and hypnotic aspect against the pool's murky depths.  In the heat of the day we will often see the dinosaurs dart in, peer cautiously about, and stoop to drink from its waters.

From a jutting limb of one of the dicot trees I have suspended a cylindrical container, pierced at several points on its circumference, and filled it up with the dry blackish fruiting bodies of a variety of Helianthus.  Many of the dinosaurs find these delectable, and this station has served to attract them to a place where we can easily observe their posturing and quarrels.  Just now I have been watching a pair of Haemorhous that have placed themselves on either side of the feeding station, monopolizing it, and are slowly and deliberately shucking and consuming the fruits.  No other dinosaurs seem inclined to try to displace them before they have eaten their fill.  The scientific name Haemorhous comes from the Greek, meaning "bloody-rumped"  - and one might be forgiven for conjuring up images of horrific battles and lacerations, sanguinary in victory or defeat.  And no doubt they would be capable of rage if sufficiently provoked.  But the reality is that the name refers to their natural coloration, the male being handsomely streaked with red upon the rump and the breast.  His mate, calmly feeding beside him, is brownish and nondescript.  At last they depart, leaving a scattering of brittle husks upon the ground.

As if they have been watching and waiting for their opportunity, more theropods dash in one by one, quickly seize a fruit in their mandibles, and make their getaway to some sheltered patch of foliage where they can make their meal in safety.  In rapid succession I see the smaller Sitta and two species of Poecile, here and gone again in a moment. Then new arrivals appear on the scene, dwarfing them all.  Striding across the greensward, oblivious to the littler dinosaurs, comes a dark squadron of half a dozen Sturnus.  These saurians ignore the Helianthus fruits, but scan and peer downward into the graminoid turf as they walk, periodically stabbing to seize some hefty invertebrate larva at their feet.  Blocky in stature, glossy black with bright spangles, single-minded, they quarrelsomely call out to each other with grating cries as they bowl along through the vegetation.  

Through the opposite portal I hear the raucous call of a Streptopelia, and another giving its low, rhythmic, hooting cry in response.  A pair of them are walking toward the pool - smooth-featured, strangely serene in bearing, their bodies subtly tinted in pale-brown and dove-gray shades of pastel.  One stands watch as the other balances on a stone and bends down to drink.  Unlike most other saurians, the Streptopelia need not pause to tip its head back after every mouthful of water and swallow - it dips its curious muzzle into the pool and drinks continuously until it has slaked its thirst.

In this timeless age it is easy to think that the natural world is unchanging, but of course it exists in its own place in history and one can see transient changes if one looks.  Twenty years prior the Streptopelia was unknown in this region.  Formerly they (like the Sturnus) had been native to an entirely different continent, placed by chance of plate tectonics on the opposite side of the planet, until some strange accident brought a few of them to the far edge of this one.  But they found their new home well to their liking, prospered, bred, and swiftly multiplied; now their call is a common sound along the ridge where we have placed this blind.  When they arrived here I wondered with some concern whether their smaller cousins the Zenaida might soon find themselves outcompeted and pushed out.  But so far I admit that they seem to be managing a successful coexistence.

There is a harsh cry and a blurred blue form barrels toward the pond.  Startled from their drink, the Streptopelia leap up and are routed into sudden flight.  The winner of the confrontation takes a victory lap and comes back to stand triumphantly atop the poolside rocks, looking irascibly about for other challengers.  This is an Aphelocoma, who has apparently claimed personal ownership of this pool and rarely allows an intruder to linger for very long before swooping in to drive it off.  Noisy, curious, watchful, and intelligent, he and his boisterous family are never far away.

Smallest of the dinosaurs, but more pugnacious yet, are the trochilids - Calypte and in certain seasons a few Selasphorus.  Near one of the blind's portals I have placed a glass bulb filled with sugary liquid, and nearby they hover, thirsty for its sweetness but ever-watchful for intrusion by others of their kind.  Their movements invisibly quick, bright scarlet iridescence flashing from their throats in the sunshine, they chitter, dart, leap in an instant to joyful battle.  Faster than the eye can follow, they dodge, parry, calculate and recalculate their tactics of aggression and defense with blazing speed in a splintered second; and then mysteriously and bilaterally declare a sudden truce to rest and drink side by side.  

The dinosaurs squawk and squabble, but rarely seem to bring one another to much actual harm.  Yet once in a while I hear angry cries from a family of Sturnus or Tachycineta, and look out to see them mobbing a true predator until it gives up the hunt - yesterday it was an accipitrid speeding off amid the trees, perhaps Accipiter striatus.  They cry out the alarm to give their young the warning.  And it gives me a reminder that there are matters of life and death at play, here as well.

 

In recent months I have been confined within this blind more than I had expected, to tell the truth.  But I am glad to have the opportunity to observe at close range the strange and wonderful creatures that inhabit this age of the world.  

I am more and more tempted to venture out and mingle among them.  

It is just hard to know whether it is safe.