This morning at the beach seemed, in a manner of speaking, strictly for the birds. No one else out there, they made the most of it; fishing once in awhile but mostly soaring and diving, dipping and gliding, they rose and wheeled as a flock. Of course someone had to ask, “Where would birds of a feather flock, if not together”? But they rose and fell gracefully and I must say, for the most part, gravely and soberly!
Such madcap antics should, as a matter of propriety, be accompanied by gleeful shouts, but their cries were low-key and raucously solemn. It came to me that these displays were actually deeply ingrained and, if likened to human mannerisms, ritualistic. After all such a bird flew tirelessly from the mountains of Ararat one day long ago-- and these descendents appear to know their job, to herald eternal hope for all humanity—officious and solemn this morning and every day. Or maybe they are just looking for rainbows.
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