As the trees and bushes of the Sonoran desert green up with the monsoon, the softball-sized clumps near the tips of many of their branches become more obvious. Most people assume that they are witches’ brooms or some other pathology, but birders know: this is where the Verdins hang out.

These unsightly clumps of twigs and junk–often enough containing shredded paper, plastic, even fishing line or metal strapping–are actually comfy, dry, feather-lined chambers carefully constructed by the male Verdin, who generally builds at least three a season: one for himself, one for his lady friend to roost in, and one for the eggs and nestlings. In the early spring when they are still new, the nests can be almost perfectly globular, but by the time they are several months old, as now, they come to be a bit squashed, and it’s easy to think they are disused when they are in fact still inhabited. More than once I’ve stood under one to show it to my companions–and had a Verdin pop out to remind us of the nest’s possessor.

What a great morning we had today! It started with the arrival of Darlene, Starr, and Marcee, right on time and smiling; by the time Alison and I had put on our boots and wandered out to greet them, scopes were already up and admiring approval uttered of a splendid male Purple Martin perched on the wire, while others sang from the air above him. It’s always a good day that starts out with birds in the yard!

We swung past to pick up Nigel, then headed south through one of those unspeakably beautiful monsoon mornings: the ocotillos glowing green, the hillsides lush, the skies as richly in-folded as the mountains. First stop: Las Cienegas, where it took us an hour to drive the couple of miles from the highway down to the creek.

There was much to slow us down, from a lovely Swainson’s Hawk overhead to a mixed flock of Lark Sparrows and Horned Larks creeping along the roadside. But we spent the most and the most enjoyable time of all watching Botteri’s Sparrows sing at close range, their stutters jump-starting the birder’s heart as surely as the sweet whistles of the Lilian’s Meadowlarks beyond them.

Finally we were at the creek, where Yellow-breasted Chats surrounded us, giving us the usual tantalizing glimpses and the occasional full-on view as they rattled and croaked and piped from the willows and cottonwoods. Summer Tanagers, Common Yellowthroats, Song Sparrows, and Bewick’s Wrens were as abundant, and the single Bell’s Vireo we heard was outnumbered two to one by Western Warbling-Vireos, migrants from the high-mountain breeding range. Also on the move were a few Black-headed Grosbeaks–autumn comes fast in the desert. The two Gray Hawks screaming and wheeling overhead were probably local birds, though, likely the pair that nests each year just downstream in the tall cottonwoods.

Hard to leave, but given that our stated destination for the day had been Patagonia, it was time to move on. One of our party was on the way to a “milestone” bird, so we decided that it should be a good one, and headed straight for Mrs. Paton’s feeders.

And Sonoita Creek.

Where the water had stopped flowing.

And the new silt and gravel proved only slightly deeper than the diameter of Darlene’s van’s tires.

And soft.

Much pushing, much shoving, a little grunting and muttering, and we managed to get it a good 18 inches closer to the pavement. Then, to our good fortune, a kind local family with a truck and a chain arrived, and within minutes the van was back on dry pavement, as the deep hole where it had been resting quickly filled with silty water.

Finding lunch in town the better part of valor, we hopped into the cafe just as the skies opened and the rain poured down; there’s something about watching the monsoon from inside and over food, the vehicle safely parked a mile from the nearest creekbed, that warms the cockles. And Marcee got her milestone: not the promised Violet-crowned Hummingbird, but a busy Cassin’s Kingbird hunting the Patagonia city park.