branches of a remaining elm, individuals and unit. A truck passes
below them, and they alight as a flock. High over head, toward me
diagonally across the street they come before veering back across the
intersection, over the corner apartment building, to the next nearest
big elm, in the apartment building's backyard. The cackle begins
again, birds perched in top-most, and continues as stragglers arrive.
Next, on some unobserved signal, birds flock to the power line,
telephone wires stretched along the alley. Cacophony redux.
Finally, back towards the original boulevard elm. But no--the leaders
fly over and past, some other objective luring. As the leading edge of
the group passes the tree, members of the back land in the upper
branches, and begin to chatter en masse. Those who had been the
leaders now are the stragglers called home.
Bus arrives.
At the YWCA, the spruces are silent. When I arrive earlier in the
morning, those trees are alive with the festive cackling of a flock of
birds. Perhaps also grackles, though I imagine chickadees. And now
wonder if I will ever see a flock burst out of the spruces.
Now much later in the day, I am at the Walker with Dorothea. It is a
free first Saturday. Dorothea wanted to see the Frida Kahlo exhibit.
There is a forty- five minute wait in line. I left. We'll meet up
again when she is through.
--
David
www.schons.net
