The Saguaro Arm For years, a family of woodpeckers has been making their home in a saguaro cactus in my front yard. They’ve hollowed-out a little home in one of the giant cactus’ arms. I put out cut-up oranges and apples in the backyard; they like to eat the fruit, I like to watch them come and go. I watch them poke at the orange, get a beakful of pulp, then fly right back to that saguaro and disappear into the hole that is the entrance to their home. A few minutes later, they’ll look out, then emerge and fly back to the orange for another beakful. They are busy parents when they have babies to feed. During breeding season, the sound of hungry baby birds echoes within the cactus, rises up and spills out of the entrance hole. It’s a beautiful sound that only stops for a moment when one of the parent birds returns with more orange pulp. But I’m worried. Last year, the top of the saguaro broke off in a storm. That cactus hasn’t looked good in a long time, but it’s getting worse rapidly. I walked by a few weeks ago and there was a foul, brownish-black liquid oozing from a tear in its side. And then, a gray blotch appeared at the base of one of the arms. As the blotch spread quickly, the arm began to droop over—until one morning I found it laying on the ground, having broken off from the trunk under its own weight. Last week, the same thing happened to another arm; but that one didn’t break off completely, now it just hangs limply upside down from the trunk. If the woodpeckers’ home had been in either of those two arms, they almost certainly wouldn’t have survived the fall. But their house is in the last remaining arm, which looked healthy—until a few days ago, when I noticed the beginnings of a gray blotch around its base. For years it had been perfectly vertical—the woodpecker entrance sitting high, some twenty feet above the ground, protecting the bird family from predators and the harsh mid-day sun. But within days it started to move, listing about twenty degrees to one side. Saguaros are majestic creatures. They stand tall, towering over the desert like brave sentinels, enduring the beatings of summer sun and winds, withstanding seemingly endless droughts and the occasional winter frost. They are the very spirit of this place. Growing slowly, deliberately—over a remarkable 200-300 year life they can reach up to 60-70 feet, grow several graceful, gravity-defying arms, open hundreds of white-flower beacons in the harshest time of the year, produce brilliant red fruits and millions of tiny black seeds, and provide shelter, sustenance and beauty to many plants, animals and birds. When their time is over, their flesh slowly drops away, leaving a skeleton of wood ribs that clatter in the breeze and bear witness to a great one’s passing. I know that cactus is dying. I know that arm is going to fall. But I don't know when. And I don’t know what I should do about it. I’ve been watching closely—the latest woodpecker chicks fledged a couple of days ago, they’re making their way in the world; for now, that cactus arm is silent. I feel better knowing that there are no woodpecker chicks inside. The thought of that cactus arm falling with four or five baby chicks in it horrifies me. I fretted a lot when I saw that gray blotch and could still hear the woodpecker babies inside. When I’d see one of the parent birds, I’d say to them: “Can’t you see that cactus is dying? Don’t you notice that arm is listing to the side? Hurry up and get your babies out of there before it’s too late!” Then, I was hoping the dying cactus arm would last as long as possible. Now, I’m hoping it falls as soon as possible—before there’s another brood of woodpecker chicks living inside. It can’t be long, that arm is almost horizontal now. But the woodpecker parents keep returning to it; probably preparing for another clutch of eggs and then more babies. What’s wrong with those birds? Surely they must realize something bad is happening to their home—the entrance is ten feet down and over from where it used to be. I know woodpeckers build their houses by excavating a hole and then digging down inside the cactus. The cactus forms a hard wall around the excavated area, protecting itself from infection and making a solid boot of a home for the woodpeckers. I infer that, normally, a woodpecker enters its hole and goes down into the boot. Now, though, with that arm horizontal instead of vertical, the woodpeckers have to go sideways instead of down. Surely they realize something has changed. If my house turned on its side over a few weeks, I’d notice. But maybe they don’t; maybe they can’t see across time like I can. Maybe their sense of scale is different; maybe they don’t remember last month. Maybe they know it is different but can’t reason into the future and see that the arm will continue to fall. Maybe they don’t see their situation’s similarity to the other two already-fallen arms. I’m worried. Any day now, they’ll probably lay more eggs. There’s no way that arm will survive until the chicks hatch and grow old enough to fledge. I’m watching more often and more closely now. The parent birds perch on the dying cactus arm outside their home and call loudly: “Brack! Brack! Brack! Brack! Brack!” I yell back to them: “Look at that arm! Look what’s happened to the other arms! It’s time to move; time to build a new home in a healthier cactus. You got lucky with the last brood of chicks. You probably won’t be so lucky with another.” “Brack! Brack! Brack! Brack! Brack!” They don’t seem to understand me. And I don’t understand them. But now I’m thinking that maybe they’re calling to me, asking for my help. I’m conflicted. I want to intervene. But I don’t know that I should. Nothing unnatural is going on here; maybe I should continue to let Nature take its course, no matter how much anguish and sorrow that may cause—both for the woodpeckers and for me. And what of the saguaro? I want to intervene. I want to do whatever I can to help; to exercise some grace, kindness and good fortune in a capricious and preoccupied world. But I don’t know what to do. I’ve been thinking that woodpeckers don’t breed year-’round. If I could just delay the inevitable fall until winter.... Maybe I could brace that falling arm, prop it up with some two-by-fours that are in the shed. I go over and take a closer look. The arm is twisting as it falls; just propping a two-by-four under it probably wouldn’t work, I’d have to build a sort of cradle for it and brace it with a triangle of support posts. Even in its almost-fallen condition, it’s still about twelve feet off the ground; and that arm is big—it’s probably heavy. I’d have to anchor the posts in the ground; that means I’d need posts about fifteen feet long. I start sketching the design in my head. I’ll need more wood than what’s in the shed. It’ll take a couple of days. I’m not sure the arm will last that long; but I don’t really know, I’m surprised it’s lasted this long. And trying to brace it is going to mean pushing it around a little. I might break it off accidentally. I might end up doing more harm than good. There’s no option that is guaranteed; no option that is best all-around. If I do nothing, let Nature take it’s course, woodpecker babies could die. If I break the arm off now, end the suspense and keep the woodpeckers from starting another brood in that failing arm, maybe I’d hurt the saguaro and hasten its death—while leaving the woodpeckers immediately homeless in the heat of summer. If I brace it and it holds, maybe I’d be hurting the saguaro; and maybe the woodpeckers would still be hurt because their house is so lopsided; maybe the braces would allow predators on the ground easier access to their home. There’s a possible catastrophe about to happen in my front yard. And I don’t know what to do. I wish I knew more. I’m not sure of my role. While I stand in the twilight considering the situation, my place in it, and my reaction to it, I wonder how many other woodpeckers and saguaros are in a similar state, how many other possible catastrophes are about to happen in other yards—and in where there are no yards. And I wonder what tomorrow holds for me. In whose yard am I and what do they see that I cannot? Is anyone contemplating my situation? Is anyone yelling warnings to me that I don’t understand? I turn again to the saguaro arm, “Brack! Brack! Brack! Brack! Brack!” +++++++++
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