Rara Avis in Terris

Spanning a shallow crick, the bridge that took the traffic over a rough pavement was set in contrast to the green leaves of embankment growth.  Wild plants burst upwards on either side of the supporting transom in the lighter greens of early summer, the wider leaves of stalky astilbe bobbing yes.  Then, a bird.  An unusually large, dense wingspan was silhouetted against the late afternoon sky in slow, flapping aviation, revealing the incredible long body and legs of a sky dragon, a grey heron.  The sequence of flight simulated the movement of a flip book, each frame a suspension of image as if Eadweard Muybridge had  positioned his camera upwards.

How can anything that large and architecturally disparate sail in eloquence?  What marvel of hollow bone and balance allows lift and sustained movement forward?  Mechanisms of engine and lane fell to nothing, as this feathered demigod processed the air, the water, the leaves, and the flow of humanity into a world that shrieked for him to fly.  Please fly.  Please be with us.

The cars traveled on a road of box stores, electronic depots, and fast food shops whose very demeanor yelled:  Always this.  Always that.  Always more.  The heron flew forward; nothing of orange advertisement or cloying persuasion deterred his straight path to below road level, down to minnow and crayfish, beetle and frog, hidden by the lush tenacity of the wild.  Oh, miracle.

A heron in the suburbs is as rare as one in the city, yet both have occurred mostly because we live near the water.  You will see them occasionally standing one-legged on the rocks of the berm, a refreshing sight from the commonplace geese.  Yet when living in Florida, the larger waterbirds were abundant, frivolous as a looking-glass carnival: gaudy, prehistoric, pinioned foofaraw.  There were both smaller white and scarlet ibses, with curved beaks for digging through slurries of sand.  The larger white cranes and egrets competed with ubiquitous flamingoes; pterodactylish brown pelicans flew single file and begged for fish from the docks.  On Sanibel Island, the sanctuary was roost for roseate spoonbills, a beautiful pink beast with a green paddle-shaped bill and reptilian eyes.  I have been enchanted with birds ever since finding striped tail feathers of the ring-necked pheasants, who lived in the tall grass fields beyond another crick long ago.

A feather tells a story of time and evolution from single strand to vaned plumage, and each was a note from a particular species kept in a tiny wooden chest.  Brilliant yellow came from goldfinches, bright blue was a jay.  Because we lived in the woods, most feathers were some form of dappled brown from hawk, owl, or wild turkey.  I sharpened a goose quill begged from a neighbor farmer, and played Bob Cratchitt keeping books with the ink made from smelly Coprinus mushrooms, the inky caps.  Eggshells from the robins were a sign of spring, and were placed on a shelf in my science collection of shells and rocks.  Mom would warn me when the red winged blackbirds were nesting, for they were notorious in temper and held back nothing in language or dive-bombing murder, yet their tweedle-deee made my skin prickle with excitement in knowing spring was really here.

Birds don't follow the temperature or availability of food when migrating back north, they are led by the amount of light in the day which explains how early visitors can be caught by bad weather.  You look at them and hope, thinking what on earth were you doing, why not hang about in Kentucky a bit longer before freezing in New York? I really don't understand how the world works at all these days, and so often find myself in one of those box stores, searching for some thing that doesn't exist at all.  Then, appeared this heron, who brought me back to where I belong.

After a very hot day of stops and starts the air is cooling, much to everyone's desire.  Everyone over at this address means me, the five cats, one large and four small fish.  Five really isn't that many, unless you are a canary in a cage; then, you have ten slitted eyes measuring to see if you fit in the casserole dish, and are there any breadcrumbs in the house?  The image of the heron still plays in front of my eyes, the neck folded back as he/she swam through the air in grace.  A respite.

Sleep well in dreams, fling open a window if you can, let your box of a house or apartment or room breathe the night air that spills over the sill.  Tuck under a wing, trust in safety for just this night, you will be fine, I am watching over you till you come to new shores.  I will see you again, tomorrow and in images and in the cycle of time.  Good night, good, dear night.