Flocking

This sinister crowd congregates in the evenings in my neighbor's sycamore tree.

It's a mixed flock, containing cowbirds and common grackles. When the evening deepens, and the time of perching approaches, the flock begins circling the neighborhood.

Why they circle the neighborhood is unknown to me; I know where they are going to finish up their swooping flight, surely they do, too?

They are going to end up in the blue gum eucalyptus in my front yard, which houses seasonal grackles, sparrows, warblers, finches, robins, a rude kinglet, and hummingbirds. The flock of grackles and cowbirds trace elliptical paths over our block, making tighter and tighter passes at the blue gum. As they swerve in the air above us, if there is no traffic on the street, if there isn't some moron blasting a car radio, we hear them change direction with an amazing swooshing sound, a sound you might expect to hear if you took a fan made of feathers and brushed it rapidly and gently over your ear.

Maybe it's a kind of dance for them to share with each other, a last pledge of flockdom for the night. "We fly together, we turn together, we hold together, and as the sun goes down, we rest together." At the end of the flight, all at once, they fly into the eucalyptus. There is a rattling of leaves as they settle themselves, a few complaintive chirps, and then they are done, home for the night, until the sun wakes them from the other side of the sky.