We’ve backed into the creosote flats, a couple miles west of the Border Patrol camp–took the first wide spot oriented so that the dust from passing vehicles goes away, towards Mexico, and not into our encampment. There are two saguaros visible to the naked eye; everything else is a creosote bush–spindly, gray bark with little leaflets. The shadows they cast are wispy, skeletal, and these dance in place over the desert. The dancing has gone on for hours and when it stops, I will go out; look for the bird that brought me here, LeConte’s Thrasher. But right now I will observe and appreciate the harshness of the landscape where they spend their entire life cycle. I am a little in awe that this is any bird’s chosen place.