Starlings in Flight
Amanda A. Gibson
It’s gray, the winter landscape along the power line right-of-way offering little of interest. The landscape mirrors my somber mood: sepia-washed acres of scrubby thorns, flat grasses, milkweed husks. The cold, moist air settles heavily. A flash of scarlet crosses the path ahead, a male cardinal whose coat pops. Just as quickly he’s gone.
I track a tittering, tapping sound to the forest edge where a swarm of starlings has descended. Some of the black birds rest in the trees, others alight on the ground and instantly rise. They’re far enough away and so numerous it’s difficult to focus on one before it lifts off and wings away. At last I discern that some peck at the leaf litter, making swift jabs at the ground before they rise, as if the earth scorches their toes. They must be plucking insects from the thawed soil. I’ve seen murmurations of starlings before, but I’ve rarely seen them alight on the ground.
While the birds swoop and tap, they whistle, a more melodious song than their evening jeers. Beneath the birds’ vocals runs a river of sound, like water coursing over rocks in a waterfall. There’s no water in sight, however, just a clutch of scrubby bushes and thorns that run beneath the power lines. The trees stand naked and immobile, so it’s not the wind. Concentrating, I separate from the flow of sound the hum and crackle of electricity coursing overhead. I’m mystified as to what is making the loud rushing noise.
I pause, considering. Could the sound be the birds rustling the leaves as they land and take off? There must be a couple hundred of them, but it’s hard to believe that would account for the level of noise. I watch, hands jammed in my pockets for warmth, fascinated by the starlings’ industry.
I don’t need to wait long for an answer. A metallic boom from industrial equipment a half mile away startles the birds. They rise en masse in a timpani of wings to return to the branches. When the rushing noise ceases, I realize I’m correct. Now the starlings sit immobile, noiseless, no doubt deciphering whether there’s a threat. The silence that ensues feels infinite and mystical, part of the web of the universe. Even here, not far from a city, I’m cradled in its embrace.
The starlings resume their show, taking up their dance and song. Soon they begin to fly away between the trees, still singing, an avian shuttle weaving a loom. More starlings appear from over a rise, also threading the trunks. I’m astonished by their speed and agility. Wave after wave of starlings follow until there are a thousand birds or more, a curtain of black pouring into the forest. The chorus of voices retreats and, finally, is gone. I stand in the quiet.
Amanda A. Gibson
Amanda A. Gibson is an environmental lawyer who has worked for the Environmental Protection Agency and Maryland's agricultural preservation program. She writes memoir, personal essays, and short stories. Her work has appeared in The Common, Under the Gum Tree, Little Patuxent Review, Six Hens, and The Sunlight Press.