I like Daylight Savings Time.

And even more so, the several weeks that the US of A has pushed that clock shift ahead. Yes, sunrise is still sunrise, but no more am I getting up an hour before the rest of the community. I ignored my alarm clock, shutting it off when it made that barely perceptible 'click' one minute before starting its cacophony of metalic clangs, and waited for the wife's clock's electronic buzz ten minutes later.

You have to get out of bed to turn hers off.

And yet, still, the heeler sisters and I left well before sunrise.

Not really soon enough, mind you, but close.

We were running about ten minutes late.

But the moon was still high,

and I watched the dawn in my rearview.

The first thing to greet us as we pulled off the interstate in the little boom town in the middle of the gasfields was a plume of black smoke.

Yet another company burning off the petroleum debris in the waste pits for a newly drilled gas well. Something they always seem to do only in the wee hours of the morning.

Before any government air quality regulators might be up and about, I assume. If there even are folks with such jobs.

But by the time the sun actually peeked over the horizon, we were miles into the desert, disturbing some pronghorn off our intended path.

While some of their brethren seemed to be pondering the carbon footprint of our wasteful habits.

There were no grouse on the first lek, which was no surprise. None have been seen using that site after they drilled several wells on the private ground to the west in 2005.

No grouse on the second lek, either, which was a bit of a surprise. Likewise for the third and fourth, all within the gas fields. It wasn't until we reached our fifth and final strutting ground of the morning that I had proof positive that strutting season has begun.

Fourteen cocks, strutting on the road, trying to impress a handful of hens.

And Bonnie, the closest was just across the road...

It was finally time to give the heelers a break, and then a meandering drive across the gas fields to get back to the interstate.

A pass along one of the higher rims found a ferruginous hawk sitting on the ground next to a nestpole.

Whether it was contemplating the view, or awaiting its mate to arrive I do not know. But if the ferrugs are back, and the grouse are strutting,

then it must be Spring.

I don't care what the calendar says.