Even the Birds are Gone

“Even the Birds are Gone”

June, 2026

It was the hottest day of the year. A lot of weather reporters in cities around the country were saying that but when they say it in Arizona it’s different. It was still Spring, and we knew we’d be hearing those words too many times over the upcoming Summer. But the heat was only a secondary concern because we hadn’t seen rain in six months.

The bright, cloudless sky was one of the things that had led Carol and me to move to the Southwest. Back in Pennsylvania we suffered through days and even weeks without seeing the sun. We joked that we were living in the dark like moles. People weren’t meant to live like that. A few winter vacations to the Phoenix area finally convinced us to make the move.

I was looking out the patio door, thinking about that day four years ago, when the moving van pulled up in front of our new home. That big, blue sky felt like our reward for pulling up stakes and moving so far from home. Then something changed, so slowly that we didn’t notice it, and that blue sky didn’t seem quite so beautiful anymore. It was too much of a good thing.

My thoughts were interrupted when Carol said, “Let’s kick off the weekend with coffee on the patio. Grab a seat and I’ll bring it out.”

I’d always enjoyed looking at our backyard, the yard we’d worked on for so long to transform. It was a total reimagining of what it was and what it should be. Gone were the water-hungry bushes and non-native trees. We even ripped out the lawn. We wanted a yard that looked like Arizona, not Pennsylvania. It took us awhile but we planted Mesquite trees, agaves and cactus among the boulders and rocks. A graceful Palo Verde tree was the star of the front yard. The finished result was a total embrace of our new life in the desert.

When Carol arrived with the coffee we sat down to plan out our weekend. She could tell I was distracted. “Jim, you seem like your head is somewhere else this morning. Anything wrong?”

I looked up and pointed. “Yeah, that… the big, blue sky that never ends.”

“Really? You’re actually complaining about the great weather?”

“Well, sort of. I like sunshine as much as anyone, but I also like a little rain once in awhile, And that’s just not happening.”

She let out a long sigh. “I married a weather nerd. Is the whole climate change thing stuck in your head again? You sure are fixating on that lately.”

“Honey, you know as well as I do that things aren’t normal around here. Far from it.”

“I know. I see the same stuff you see on TV and online. I just try to take it in stride because there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“That doesn’t mean we should pretend it’s not happening. I saw on Channel 15 this morning that today marks exactly six months since we’ve had measurable rain.”

Another long sigh. “I knew we were getting close to that.” She looked up at the sky. “We just have to be patient. It’s May and monsoon season starts in June. The rain will come, it always does.”

I shrugged. I could tell it was time to change the subject. “Well, I hope you’re right. I’m sorry to be such a bummer.” I took a long sip of my coffee.

Carol was silent for a moment, then, “Well, I guess it’s my turn to be a bummer. My pregnancy test was negative… again,”

I reached over and held her hand. I could tell that she felt even worse than I did. “Sorry, babe, but hang in there. We’ll just keep trying and doing what your doctor says. We’ll be a mom and dad in time.”

She managed a weak smile. “I can’t wait. She paused and added, “So, what do you want to do with our weekend?”

September 2026

We’d made it through another long, hot Arizona summer. It had brought countless “hottest day of the year” comments. On three of those days it hit 123 degrees. The monsoon weather pattern had never developed so there was no measurable rain. There were lots of close calls but all we ended up getting were strong winds and haboobs, those towering walls of dust that blew in from farmland south of the city. They were frightening to see and at times reduced visibility to zero. The weather reports talked about virga, a term for rain that evaporates before it makes it to the ground. That was the closest we came to getting wet.

Local television reports about the heat and dry spell had moved from the weather team to the news team. The usual language of “a slight chance of precipitation” and “above average heat” had been replaced with more serious terms like “continued drought conditions” and “extreme heat warning”. My fixation on the weather had finally gone mainstream.

December 2026

Things had taken a significant turn. It had been exactly one year since the Valley had gotten measurable rainfall. That had never happened before. Even Death Valley had never gone that long without rain. The Governor and the Mayor held a joint news conference to talk about the drought and what was being done to mitigate the problem. They both did their best to reassure the public that there was no reason to panic but their words failed to do that.

They talked about problems with the falling water levels on the Colorado River reaching a point where the generators at Hoover Dam would no longer be able to produce electrical power. The Governor’s office was developing a state-wide plan for emergency brownouts and rolling blackouts. The thought of living in the desert with no power for air conditioning was frightening. When I talked with friends at the office the weather was the only topic.

The Mayor announced updated local limits on water usage. Stage One water restrictions were voluntary and had been in place since May. The restrictions were now being raised to Stage Two. There would be no more assuming that people would voluntarily do the right thing. Violations would be monitored by the Water Department and Stage Two came with substantial reductions in water usage and severe penalties for violations. Both the Governor and Mayor made it clear that the penalties would be enforced.

Reports about climate change were all over the media. It had become the dominant subject on every news platform. There was drought in the Middle East, cyclones in East Asia and wildfires throughout Canada and Europe. Sea levels were rising everywhere. I’d been focusing my attention on what was happening in the United States. The national news media had descended upon Phoenix. Our weather wasn’t just a local story anymore.

With the unseasonably warm weather it felt more like summer than holiday time. There was no more changing of the seasons. It was always hot. Carol and I were walking around our yard on a Saturday morning doing what had become a weekly assessment of the survivability of our plants. It was a somber task. Even our Prickly Pear and Golden Barrels in the front yard were shriveling up.

Our next-door neighbors, Peter and Anne, were out doing the same thing. Their front yard was beautiful, but it was their backyard that looked like something out of a magazine. They were retired and fanatical about their gardens. Their raised beds full of herbs and vegetables were already impressive when we’d moved into our house. Since then, they had expanded them and for a time green was everywhere. There was a small sign by their backdoor that read, Welcome to Our Farm. That was then. This was now.

We walked over and we could tell by their expressions that they were feeling the same way we were. “Hey, guys, happy weekend.” It was the only way I could think of to start what I knew would be a difficult conversation.

They both managed a smile and Peter said, “Mornin’, Jim…Carol. Looks like you’re doing a yard inspection too.”

Carol nodded. “It’s getting so depressing when even the cactus are dying.”

Anne held up a large, plastic pail. “This is full of what’s left of our beautiful Artichoke Agave. I planted it twenty years ago.”

After some neighborhood small talk, Peter said, “Hey, it’s almost noon. I don’t think a cold beer would be out of order, do you?”

Carol and I looked at each other and simultaneously answered, “Sounds good.”

We walked through the gate on the side of the house and when we reached the backyard we stopped and looked around. Neither Carol nor I could say a word.

Anne saw our expressions. “We’re in mourning. These gardens were like a part of the family and now look at them.”

The raised beds that had once overflowed with peppers, tomatoes and a variety of herbs were now almost empty. The dead plants had been pulled out and the few remaining ones were dried out, brown stubs.

It felt like we were at a funeral and I said, “Geez, this is awful. I’m so sorry. I know these gardens were your pride and joy.”

Carol added, “Do you think there’s any way you can replant at least some of it?”

Anne shook her head. “Nope, no way. Even if we were allowed to water everything it’s still too hot. It’s not even cooling down at night like it used to. This is the first time we’ve been outside in three days.”

Carol nodded. “I know. We used to sit out on the patio at night under the stars. No more of that. Since I’ve been working from home, I’ve been trying to avoid looking out at our yard. It’s so hard watching things die right in front of me. Even the birds are gone.”

We sat down in their family room. Peter brought in a round of beers. Slowly, the conversation turned from Arizona weather to the weather elsewhere. Anne sighed and shook her head. “We had the holidays all planned out for the kids and grandkids to be here. Then when it was time to commit and get their air fare they called and said they’d changed their plans. They were hearing all over the news about our heat and drought.”

Peter chimed in. “We didn’t have much of a sales pitch to talk them into coming. That heat and drought speak for themselves.”

Carol asked, “Why don’t you go back there for Christmas?”

They looked at each other and Anne answered, “We thought of that, but their weather sucks too. Both of the kids are in Indianapolis and they’re both near the White River. Our son said they’ve had a ton of rain and they’ve been posting flood warnings. They’re scared to death of losing everything.

Peter added, “Stay here or go there. Neither one sounds like much of an option.”

I was sure we were all wishing we could just change the subject and have a nice time. Our get-togethers had always been lighthearted but that day was different. Along with people all around the state we’d been depressed and worried for a long time. Now we were downright frightened.

March 2027

The water situation statewide hadn’t changed. A few light showers had come and gone but it wasn’t enough to make a difference. The water level at Hoover Dam was now below the generators and they’d been taken offline. Without that power the electrical grid in the entire Southwest wouldn’t be able to keep up with the demands of millions of people. And Summer was coming.

It had become almost painful to keep up with the news online and on television. There was a lot going on in the world, but it was hard to follow any news stories other than the climate related ones. It was depressing. At the office we began an unspoken protocol that discouraged any conversation about the weather. That was almost impossible.

People who work in commercial real estate like I do spend their days looking at trends in growth, expanding businesses and a relocating workforce. For years, those trends had shown strong, steady growth but now showed things had slowed to a crawl. The office had become much quieter.

Normally in March, Valley hotels and resorts were full of Spring Training fans, golfers and thousands of people who wanted to escape the cold weather back home. Not anymore. Spring Training had officially been canceled. No one wanted to pay money to sit under an unbearably hot sun and watch a game being played on brown, dried out grass. The players felt the same way. Golf courses couldn’t get enough water and most of them had closed down. As far as people wanting to escape the cold and enjoy the Southwest, their own weather at home was warmer too. Snow storms had become rainstorms. But to them that still seemed to be a better vacation option than baking in the desert.

The tourist industry had become just a shadow of what it had once been. The economic impact to businesses throughout the state was huge. There were almost no outside dollars coming in. Without the tourist revenue, hotels and restaurants were laying off staff and some had to close altogether. The feeling of hopelessness was everywhere.

September 2027

The month began with happy news for a change. Carol was pregnant. At long last we’d be enjoying everything that came with being a family. But, like it or not, our happiness was tempered by everything that was going on around us.

After another summer of record heat and an unreliable electrical grid, a strange new reality had set in. It was like a punch to the gut. After decades of steady growth and prosperity, Arizona real estate was no longer in demand. Companies that had announced their planned relocation to the Valley or talking about expansion couldn’t ignore the obvious. Economic growth was practically at a standstill.

My office was eerily empty and quiet. Some of the brokers had been let go and some others had given up and moved on to other jobs in other places. My income had taken a major hit and there was no sign things would change anytime soon.

It wasn’t just commercial properties that had been affected. Residential real estate had also taken a huge drop. Home prices had plummeted to a point where the average home was worth just half of what it had been two years prior. Our own mortgage was over two hundred thousand dollars underwater, a term that we found twistedly ironic. Up until then, Carol and I, like most people in the Valley, had watched our house soar in value over the years. The new climate reality had made sure those days were over. We now had a home that had gotten difficult to afford and probably impossible to sell. Nobody was moving to Phoenix.

January 2028

We’d been doing the best we could to keep a positive outlook on our life and our future. It was a real struggle. Climate change was a global threat but for us it had become personal. What was supposed to take decades to happen was already here. With a daughter on the way we tried to focus on normal things like making a spare bedroom into a nursery. Finding good childcare. Taking her to the zoo. Getting her ready for school. But the normal things looked impossible. Even playing together in the backyard didn’t seem realistic.

We were sitting in the family room watching the evening news when Carol got up and turned off the television. “I just can’t handle this anymore.” She was close to tears.

I got up and went over to her. I put my arms around her and tried to think of something to say that would give her some kind of comfort. It was the moment I’d been dreading. “I know, babe, I guess it’s decision time.”

We sat back down on the sofa. Neither of us felt like finishing our wine. She was staring, lost in thought and then said, “We have to raise our little girl somewhere, but I can’t imagine where that is. Do we stay or go?”

It was an emotional question that didn’t seem to have a good answer. I knew that people all over the country were asking themselves the same thing. “Well, the first thing that comes to mind is going back to Pennsylvania. It’s familiar ground and we have family and friends there.”

“Yeah, it has those things, but it also has all of the things we wanted to get away from, and now the weather too.”

It was hard to be anything but negative. “I know. From what we’ve been hearing from people back there it’s even less sunny than it used to be. It’s like the rain only stops when a big wind or a tornado blows it away. And it’s warmer then ever.” I paused and looked at her. Tears were running down her face. “We can stay and bake in the sun or we can go back and hope our house doesn’t blow away and our car doesn’t wash down the street.”

We sat in silence for awhile. The situation seemed overwhelming. I remembered a term I’d heard on the news about people in the Middle East and Africa becoming “climate refugees”, leaving their homes and escaping to an unknown future. Now climate change was at our front door. We were living in the fifth largest city in the country and we were going to be climate refugees.