Flying patterns

As I look down from where I stand on the bridge, the swallows stitch a quilted pattern that disappears before my eyes. They fly fast and low, never quite meeting their rippling reflections. And never colliding. Only a rare near miss. Are their eyes always open and ahead? Do they read each other’s minds.

The pattern downriver almost makes collisions seem the objective. A great blue heron flaps its wings with ponderous intent, building speed toward another heron stilted in the water. When the first approaches, the other lifts off, wings pressing down the air with heavy beats. And then the chase soon ends as the two herons spill their flights and circle away from each other.

In a way it’s as if some creatures have nothing better to do, although of course, there must be underlying sense. Patterns surely must mean something.

I look up to see sitting birds silhouetted among the bird-shaped pods of a Kentucky coffee tree. Probably means nothing.

But what do I know? I can’t read birds minds. And if I tried to fly from this bridge, it would be straight down.

At least, I can say that some patterns are more interesting than others. I watch the swallows below me for only a few more minutes, then I head across town. I need to swoop over to Iwig’s and get milk before supper.

***

And today the wind is stiffer, pouring under the bridge. The swallows hold in place with rapid beats of their wings, their heads pointed into the wind just above the beaten peaks of water. Then turning to one side, they speed away, wings tightly stretched, to find another spot. And repeat. It’s still a pattern – with more stationary elements. All the swallows are flying this way today.

But no herons. Not two. Not one.

And I can’t stand here, watching in one place, for very long. It’s too cold for April.