It's late fall, and the air is rich with the variegated chatter of a million birds. They swarm so thickly in the pewter twilight that some of the trees don't even seem to have dropped their leaves - the dark shapes of the birds form clever silhouetted stand-ins - until a car horn blares and the fluttering shapes are suddenly airborne, leaving the trees bare again.
I am intrigued by the shapes of these sudden flights. All together in a great sweeping circle, then break in a hundred different directions. It's a grand ballet for anyone who cares to watch, each set of wings making its contribution to the graceful whole, then swooping away to its predetermined place of rest, waiting its turn to join the dance again.
I wonder what the birds do when they're not dancing in the public sky. Is there an avian equivalent to lounging in front of the TV, or splurging on a cheeseburger, fries, and a diet soda?
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