We are driving home, up the east side of the Salton Sea, after two days of prowling around the south end, checking out birds.

a white butterfly
nectaring on saltbush
Mozart on cd

We pass a long line of pelicans—migrating north along the Coachella Valley between the Sea and the hills.  The line changes in long loopy ropes, double ropes and triple, twining and twisting together, flying north on instinct, birds strung out, connected, disconnected, some changing places with others.

How far will they fly today?  Will they make it over Death Valley into the Owens, where there are deep lakes and fish to catch? 

se vende chivos
says the sign . . . but I look for
one that says:  date shakes

The wind is not an issue this morning, just a whisper through the dagger leaves of palms.

I want to pull over, get off the highway and photograph the pelicans on their spring flight.  But ole “Push On” is in the driver’s seat.

palo verde
and new palms—acres of cars
at the casino