Last night on the way to the grocery store, I looked up and saw thousands of starlings flying en masse—their shape changing with every swoop—every wing catching twilight at the same moment—flashing silver— then another turn and all wings are black. The entire flock moving together, gliding, sweeping left then right, expanding and contracting like a perfect shape shifting kalaeidescope.

I’d seen the birds fly in large groups before, but never this pre-sunset ritual, which I’ve now learned is common; supposedly a form of communication before calling it a day.

I stood there alone staring at the sky for maybe ten, fifteen minutes. I assumed the show had only just started, that soon a crowd would gather and we’d all shake our heads and sigh, agreeing that nature is magnificent and we’re inferior dolts that have so much to learn.

But only a  few people even slowed down long enough to look up, and one disappointed voice who did,  said, “It’s just birds,” and turned quickly away.

This is the season for the starlings dance; for robins getting drunk on juniper berries outside my window; for geese arguing about the tidiness of the vee; chickadees, doves, cardinals and finches, a bounce in their step now that the bullyish greckles have finally gone.

With all that avian magic on my mind I happened to come across this interview, which reminded me that I’d wanted to read The Bedside Book of Birds. 

And now I will. 

 

“Stevenson remembered the story of a monk who had been distracted from his copy-work by the song of a bird. He went into the garden to listen more closely, and when he returned, after what he thought were only a few minutes, he discovered that a century had gone by, that his fellow monks were dead and his ink had turned to dust. The song of the bird had given him a taste of Paradise, where an instant is as a hundred years of earthly time. Was the same true of time in hell, Stevenson asked himself.”  (From— The Bedside Book of Birds, by Graeme Gibson)