The Watering Hole That Holds Memory and Nests

Omar Enrique Berdugo Cabeza had set out that morning toward his work when he decided to take the long way around, following the Arroyo de los Guardianes. Before he saw anything, there was the sound: birdsong opening through the trees as if the sanctuary were waking at its own unhurried pace. Farther along, wildflowers scattered color across the path, and Omar kept walking until the trail led him where it eventually leads everyone — to the Poza de los Borrachos, that lake still carrying in its name the stories of the campesinos who used to come and cool off after a night of revelry, and of the women who arrived with their bateas balanced on their heads, worked a ball of jabón de perro into lather, and beat the clothes against the manduco until the dirt surrendered, then spread everything out to dry along the bank. As the sun began to find the water that morning, Omar moved slowly toward some nests he had spotted among the lake's shoreline vegetation. A bird faced him at once — not attacking, but not yielding either — speaking in that language that needs no words: this nest is mine. Omar recognized in her a likeness to a tiamaría and stepped back with quiet respect. On his way back to his work, the morning's closing note was sounded by a pair of pollonetas, singing bright and easy, as if they meant to finish the day's story with music.