Wings Over the Marsh: Sensory Details at Dusk

Wings Over the Marsh

1Aunt Inés parked her truck beside the cattail marsh just as the sun slid behind the hills. "Listen," she said, before I had even shut my door. The air smelled of wet mud and cold leaves, and somewhere far away a dog barked twice and went quiet. I zipped my jacket all the way up to my chin.

2We walked out onto the wooden boardwalk. The boards creaked under my sneakers, and a chilly breeze nipped at my ears. Dry cattails rattled against each other like sheets of paper. I pulled up my hood and stuffed my hands into my pockets.

3At first, I saw only a few dark specks above the trees. Then more specks arrived, and more, until a ragged cloud of starlings drifted over the marsh. Each bird was a little smaller than a robin, but together they filled half the sky.

4Suddenly the whole flock turned at once. The cloud stretched into a long ribbon, then folded into a shape like a giant spinning top. When the birds swooped low over our heads, their wings made a rushing sound, like a wave sliding up a sandy shore. I felt a puff of wind brush across my cheeks.

5"How do they keep from crashing?" I whispered. Aunt Inés smiled. "Scientists think each bird watches the few birds closest to it," she said. "When one turns, its neighbors turn too."

6The sky faded from orange to deep purple. The flock poured down toward the reeds like black sand spilling from a jar. For a few seconds, the marsh buzzed with clicks, whistles and squeaky chatter. Then the noise softened into a sleepy murmur.

7On the walk back, my fingers were stiff and my nose was numb, but I didn't mind. I kept hearing that rushing sound in my head, as if the whole sky had taken one giant breath.