Sunday supper: You've probably figured out by now I'm not much of a birder.
The language of birding often strikes me as unnecessarily obscure: buff-throated saltagers and lanceloted monklets. And as a night owl, I find the pre-dawn hours obscene.
But it's hard not to be charmed by the constant whir of wings,
the territorial fights,
the curved beaks, and saturated colors of tiny hummingbirds.
We counted more than 40 types of birds in my visit to magical Maqui Pucuna preserve, from broad-billed motmots to choco toucans. And many other ferns, flowers, and mariposas (butterflies) that flourish in the rich volcanic soil.
Tomorrow I return to civilization, to the sounds of cars and dogs and people instead of the rushing river.
Instead of counting butterflies, I'll be shopping for souvenirs and learning about the history of the city in museums and churches.
Thank goodness this place will still be here: reclaimed, protected, unspoiled.
Nesting for generations to come.
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