Blue
by Melissa Nunez
When I heard indigo buntings were migrating through our area, stopping off at South Padre Island to refresh themselves from the journey across the Gulf of Mexico, battling the fierce blowing winds, I decided I had to go see them. I had visited the birding centers closer to home, spotted cardinal reds and parakeet greens, splashes of blue on the heads of green jays, even the vibrant modernist mishmash of the painted bunting. But not pure blue.
When we arrived at the SPI Birding Center, photographers were poised in the parking lot, around the trees studded with orange halves that attracted the fatigued birds. Immediately I saw the ever-present rock pigeons and great-tailed grackles, then the fire-bright goldfinches and orioles. I kept my eyes peeled—scanning tree to tree, branch to branch—for blue while my husband took the kids to pay our entrance fee. We moved up the steps and onto the wraparound patio that transitions into over half a mile of boardwalk leading out over the bay, showcasing shorebirds that feed and nest in the black mangroves.
In the shade of this more secluded corner, I finally saw a flash of blue. I stopped and waited, and then there they were. Two indigo buntings, rich blue heads fading in gradient, tingeing teal down the curve of breast and belly, turning charcoal at the wings. They stayed close to the spread of dayflowers, petite petals so similar in color they could be plucked plumage, hopping in and out of cover as they replenished their energy stores. I took several pictures, observed their movements until additional people clustering along the balcony caused them to move off to further seclusion. Straining eyes awaiting reappearance.
When we made it out onto the beach, the sand was littered with blue bodies. Mollusk-like in shape, jelly-like in structure. We didn’t know what they were, but the small tentacles along their underside made us wary. My husband used one of the plastic shovels to clear a section of sand for the children to play in.
Up close they were miniature elliptical galaxies. Geodes cracked open. Rich, iridescent blue around the edges, clear in the center. A translucent, thin ridge that appeared plasticine crossed the topside diagonally. They flapped and flurried in the wind that blew in strong bursts throughout our whole stay on the island.
By-the-wind sailors—bud-producing vessels of this cnidarian creature. Potential stuck like dying stars in their forms. They live their lives on the surface of the water. Directed by the whims of the wind, sustained by plankton and photosynthetic algae, along with the blue pigmentation that both reflects the rays of the sun and serves as camouflage in their fluid environment.
There were so many—a stranding. But my research told me I was not to worry. This was only one part of the lifecycle: mothership, flotilla, emissary. There are millions more out on the open ocean that we never really think about. Not until they are laid out and lined up for us to see, to step on and over and scrape aside. Washed ashore they sit in sand, countless constellations, until they dissolve, reunite with the waves, absorbed by the foam.
Melissa Nunez is a Latin@ writer and homeschooling mother of three from the Rio Grande Valley. Her work has appeared in Scrawl Place, Variant Lit, and others. She is contributor at The Daily Drunk and Yellow Arrow. She is also a staff writer for Alebrijes Review. She is inspired by observation of the natural world, the dynamics of relationships, and the question of belonging. You can follow her on Twitter @MelissaKNunez.
