Why feathered friends flock to my lawn

There is a sigh of relief over south Florida: We are getting at least some of the rain we have been hoping for over the past six months.

After a rain ends, the roofs drip, the rumbling in the sky fades away, and sun rays lance through blue-gray scattered clouds. Birds arrive and relish the moments; street gutters are now small rivers for their drinks and baths. Lawns have transformed from the golden crisp of drought to being green and squishy.

Two young ibises wander about my sparse, wet lawn. There are small bare spots that new grass hasn't filled in yet. The two white birds poke and wiggle their beaks in the moist, sandy soil.

Young ibises have an egret's body, but have a pointed pink beak that curves down in a half-circle long enough to stir a glass of iced tea. They poke, prod, and gobble what they find, flicking aside surface debris. They are dedicated in their pursuit, making nickel-size holes in the yard.

My guess is they are after chinch bugs and mole crickets, which live underground and cause distress to anyone obsessed with having a picture-perfect lawn. Mr. and Mrs. Ibis like my yard, because for the past 23 years I've done nothing to the grass except cut it. No acids, alkalines, fertilizers, no insecticides of any kind. Lawn-care people are always after me to saturate the soil with chemicals, in order to obtain the movie-star-estate look.

But if I did that, the birds wouldn't hang around.

Mourning doves amble pigeonlike over and around shoots of grass, gobbling tiny weed seeds. Blackbirds, with their fierce yellow eyes, often act scared. Yet they look at you with such arrogance, marching through freshly cut grass, flushing out baby butterflies or moths hiding from their purposeful swagger.

The birds avoid the lawn next to mine, where there is a lush green carpet of manicured St. Augustine grass. Well-heeled retirees with grand estates are fond of St. Augustine grass, but I'm not so inclined. It's like walking on a foam-rubber mattress. I like feeling solid ground beneath my feet, and St. Augustine grass requires twice the water of ordinary bahia. Wading birds shun it, knowing there is some sort of foreign substance in the soil that's good for grass but not good for them.

The grandest treat so far was waking at 6:30 in the morning and seeing two sandhill cranes out there in the front yard, three-foot-tall beige-colored birds with a bright patch of red over their eyes. They do the same as the ibises, poke and jab and wiggle their beaks in the bare patches of yard, looking for bugs.

Their beaks are shorter than the ibises', so they have to prod more vigorously. Still, they obtain the same results and gobble their fill of whatever lives below. Soon I won't have a mole cricket anywhere.

But all too quickly the neighborhood makes neighborhood noises: cars starting, doors banging, kids talking loudly and rebelliously. The sandhill cranes take to the sky.

Sandhill cranes make the most musical squawk when they are in flight. They never utter a sound when wandering about the yard, but, aloft, they fill the sky with a tuneful rambling chortle that can be heard a long way off.

But they, like the ibises, will remember my house, the peace, the quiet, the abundant food. They will be back when the neighborhood is sleepy and non-frantic.

I still get fliers from a turf company, announcing they will make my lawn the envy of the whole block. Nope, not for me. I have the birds. They come and go at will. The entertainment is satisfying, and it costs nothing. The feeling of country remains in suburbia.