The sun bore down relentlessly on our brown skin as we labored beneath the harsh, unwavering heat of a summer evening in the Chihuahuan Desert. My nails were chipped, and my wrists and back ached from hours of shoveling dirt and hauling “sentinel stones” — the rocks placed atop burial sites as guardians of those resting beneath. A small group of us gathered united in the task of preparing a resting burial place for an ancestor — a 750-year-old woman, recently returned to the community from El Rancho Chaa, located north of Presidio, Texas.
Mitochondrial DNA — passed down exclusively from mother to child — was extracted from her remains, confirming that she was related to several women from the Big Bend region, establishing many locals of Presidio and the region as linear descendants of other remains that have been found in the area. This woman became the first to be returned and honorably reburied at the sacred mound in the Barrio de Los Lipanes, owned by the Lipan Apache Tribe and now stewarded by local Native American families.
As we toiled, our thoughts were consumed by a relative that we had never met. We envisioned her life, untouched by the arrival of the Europeans. I could feel her presence, thanking us for finally granting her descanso eterno (eternal rest), as our elders would often remind us.
We worked in silence, but we also laughed and shared jokes. A member of the community prepared the offering for our final prayer as the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm orange glow preparing to depart. A stillness settled over the burial site, enveloping us as if time had paused, transporting us to another realm where we became witnesses to this sacred moment — as though our ancestors were conveying a message of encouragement and support. We shared our final thoughts, creating space for reflection on the evening and the labor we had devoted that day. When the last voice had spoken, a calm radiated across the landscape. The work for that evening was complete.
Then, as if responding to our collective reverence to reburying our ancestor or simply following their feeding routine, the lesser nighthawks (Chordeiles, acutipennis) began to appear in the sky. They soared around us, swooping low and grazing my long, black hair. One by one, they emerged, gliding silently through the air, their silhouettes almost merging with the dark skies. Initially, their presence was subtle — only a few gliding low over us, dipping and weaving in patterns that felt like a dance of celebration and joy.
But soon, more joined, and they began to swoop closer, acknowledging the importance of this moment and encouraging us to keep going. The lesser nighthawks, guardians and inhabitants of the burial mound, celebrated the return of our ancestor and honored her presence. The birds’ flight, a quiet dance against the fading light, blending with the land — a survival skill shared by the Native people of Far West Texas. Like us, the nighthawks approach life in the desert in accordance with the sunrises and sunsets, their camouflage blending them perfectly with the wames (creosote bush) and the color of the earth.
The approach the lesser nighthawks take to survive and thrive in the desert mirrors the rhythms of the people who live and have lived in the lower Chihuahuan Desert. Like these communities, the nighthawks emerge at dawn and dusk, making efficient use of the cooler hours as the late afternoons and early evenings grow increasingly harsh under the weight of climate change. Watching the birds descend, then rise again in graceful arcs, I understood why our ancestors chose to remain here, bound to the sunsets that held their stories.
“Our ancestors chose the land over anything else,” another elder murmured as we stood together, the final moments of light giving way to a night full of stars. The nighthawks faded one by one, blending back into the darkness. We packed our tools, our exhaustion replaced by a deep, quiet satisfaction. The nighthawk, appearing as a silent witness, had become a symbol of who we are — a representation of camouflaging, minimalism and migration. In its flight, we connected to those who came before us, reminding us that this work was seen, that it mattered, and that our connection to this land will be everlasting.
When youth and adults seek to reconnect with their identity as Indigenous peoples of the Big Bend — especially those who didn’t grow up in this land — they often ask me about “native names” or “cultural protocols,” curious about traditions and beliefs they can honor to feel proud of who they are. My response is nearly always the same: to understand your culture, begin by immersing yourself in the land. In connecting with the land, we honor and learn about our culture. In those moments when they might feel a sense of loss or detachment from who they are, I tell them to think of the lesser nighthawk and how they teach us about our own lives.
When we look at the pristine nature of the Big Bend, we don’t just see untouched wilderness; we see thousands of years of land stewardship and practices of conservation by the local people. As the oldest continuously farming community in North America, our ancestors were not passive inhabitants but caretakers of land, practicing methods and trading in ways that nurtured and preserved our culture and economy over millennia. When we learn to care for the places where the lesser nighthawks nest, when we advocate for other species at risk like the yellow-billed cuckoo, the black-capped vireo, and the Mexican long-nosed bat, we carry forward these teachings. In the land and its ecology, we can find all of the answers that we seek.
This article is written as part of American Bird Conservancy’s Conservation and Justice Fellowship program, in partnership with Big Bend Conservation Alliance and Rio Grande Joint Venture. Dr. Flotte is the 2024 Big Bend Bird Conservation and Culture Community Engagement Fellow working to center Indigenous voices, stories, and language to co-create avian sanctuaries in culturally significant sites within the Chihuahuan Desert.