It was as if in
a dream or a movie. Pure magic. Turning the corner in the late afternoon to a
street that sits adjacent a farming community. After that street there are only
fields of green and brown for as long as the eye can see. My own camera is not powerful
enough to capture the nests, a little far off, that sit right near the tops of
trees. I can see some silhouettes only. But each nest has a bird watching the,
I suppose, eggs. The thing is, there is nothing else around there- no forest,
no city, no real town to speak of either. There was a quiet that, against
logic, vibrated in the air. The sound of nothing perhaps. The sky was a strange
blue-white, as if the clouds had mixed themselves in with the actual sky and
melted but not disappeared. One man on the end, a little guy with an actual camouflaged
lens, maybe two or three feet long. It must have cost a thousand dollars or
much more. The green boggy-marsh-swamp surrounds the bottom and nothing moves. It’s
the birds, large, tending, watching, waiting, being. Sometimes, just sometimes,
one flies off and goes across the street and disappears into the sky. It was
something. It was all something. But the first moment turning the corner and
looking up to the high left, - the shapes of the nests, black against the sky,
- and a large bird in each. That is what the best of things are made from.
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