Trees Breathing Birds

We returned to the place where it had happened last year.  We knew exactly where it was, on the trail between Coldwater and Fesserton, at the edge of the bridge that crosses a little river headed for Matchedash Bay, the eastern most part of Georgian Bay. We knew the general time of year: fall and the general time of day: just before sunset but that was it.  We had talked about trying to see it again but had no definite plans.

Then at supper time one day last week, it popped into my head.  Today, is the day that we should go.  And so, we did.  We parked the car at the Trail lot in Coldwater and started walking west past the Snowmobile Trail and the farmers fields, out into marsh land, until we came to the bridge.  We stopped and looked up, waiting.  It was only a few seconds before we saw them.  Blackbirds.  All kinds of blackbirds; Red-winged, Starlings, Grackles and others.  They flock together at this time of year before migrating south for the winter.  At sunset, they fly out into the marsh in Matchedash Bay to spend the night in the cattails.

They flew fairly low over our heads in numbers small enough to count.  I lay down on a big cement block so I didn’t have to crank my neck and get vertigo.  From this vantage point, I could watch them fly over me with the blue sky and fluffy clouds as a background.  I could almost feel the line that they seemed to carve through the air, in my own tired, work-weary body.  It felt like a clearing, a lightening of the dense energy that surrounded me, like being combed with feathers.  I was content to lie there experiencing this gentle presence but my partner noticed that they were all flying to a group of tall bare trees up ahead and he could hear them singing.

So, we walked on down the trail and the sound of Red-Winged Blackbirds cheerful trill, the sharp calls of Grackles and Starlings got louder and louder as we approached the trees.  More and more birds were landing on them and they began to look like black leaves on the bare branches silhouetted against the sun that was now low in the sky.  We sat on the edge of a second bridge and hung our legs over the stagnant marsh water, bright green with duck weed.  The smell of the water in the cooling, moist air brought back memories of other marsh visits.  The serenade of thousands of voices was exciting and bright as we sat quietly absorbing the celebration.

Then suddenly, everything went dead silent.  My gaze rose and sharpened.   Something was happening.  I was completely in the moment and alert, when a huge flock rose from the trees, a silent cloud of black flapping.  The flockcloud aptly name a murmuration swirled and turned elegantly in the cool air, creating a whooshing sound as it went over us.  It took our breath away.  Literally. When the murmuration appeared, we quietly gasped and then held our breath, as if our bodies instinctively recognized the sacredness of the spectacle.  As if, even the sound of breath escaping our mouths would disrupt the majesty of that moment.  I felt my body lighten and lift slightly as the flock ascended, as the hundreds of birds moved as one, as if my heart also took flight with them.  Perhaps it did.  Perhaps the vibration of beings behaving as one resonated with my true human nature, the truth of humans being herd animals, a flock species, not lone wolves, not leopards.

It was over in a few seconds and then we both smiled at our good fortune, at the gift that had just been given, at somehow being called out by the marsh at the right time of year, at the right time of day to witness this yearly ritual of flocking.  The singing began again and we watched small numbers of birds arrive and leave.  As they left, it looked to my mystical eyes as though the tree was exhaling them in a puff of spotted smoke and then breathing more birds in, like treelungs breathing birds in and out.

After a few more minutes, suddenly, they went silent again.  I knew what this meant and I scanned the sky around the trees.  Once again, a big murmuration rose silently, swirled and twisted and then went off towards the cattails.  The silence had now become the signal to pay attention.  How did they all know it was time to rise?  How did they all know to stop singing?  What was their signal?   Or was it a group mind that just knew?

Finally, the sun went down and it started to get cold.  We couldn’t believe that there were still birds left in the trees, but there were.  We could hear them singing.  We had to get back to the car before it got dark so we reluctantly walked away, looking over our shoulders from time to time to catch last glimpses.

A few days later, following our Thanksgiving meal, my partner suggested going back to the same spot one more time.  The sun was very low in the sky as we walked briskly to the bridge.  Birds were already flying over our head as we got closer and we realized that we were arriving "later" than last time.  We could see the steady stream of birds crossing the path before we got there.  It was like a river of flowing birds, in a fairly narrow stream, all heading towards the open marsh.  They were impossible to count, so numerous were they.  The spectacle was nothing like the previous time only a few days earlier. 

 We stood and watched for around an hour.  Some birds landed in the trees to rest which seemed to jettison others off into the air.  Once again, the trees seemed in inhale birds and then exhale them.  The singing was excited and alive.  We had never seen so many birds in one flock before.  Thousands and thousands passed over our heads and the word a million seemed to be the only apt descriptor.  It reminded me of a river as they flowed by, or a big highway at rush hour, so steady was the stream.  But, we are used to those and think nothing of them -- endless water, endless traffic.  Endless birds though, that was new to us.  

It got darker and colder and the flock got thinner.  Warm tea and pumpkin pie began to beckon to us and we reluctantly headed back to the car, looking over our shoulder every now and then.  Joyful abundance, the generosity of nature, feathered beings who put aside the rivalries of mating and nesting season to join together for safety, a miracle, a thanksgiving gift to remind us to be thankful to Earth and then again, nothing to do with we humans whatsoever, relations, teachers.  All of these now live in my consciousness, all of these are part of my story, our story.