On Monday evenings at 6:30 p.m. a horde of swallows, or perhaps they are sparrows, take flight. Numbering at least five hundred they fly back and forth between two skyscraper buildings in downtown San Francisco. I watch them from the six foot window on the 16th floor where in an urban classroom a small group of writers gather to learn more. Why do these birds fly so precisely at this time? Perhaps they leave their home, an incredibly misplaced tree rooted outside the Greyhound bus station on Mission Street and Second. I can set my watch by their taking flight.
Same flying ritual occurred last year in the fall. Only in this season do they fly such a distinct pattern. Maybe the change in weather brings them this high. They seem to need each other and fly in an eerie parallel to the Blue Angels who also fly so perilously close and in the high sky this time of year. Watching these birds makes me feel I belong. For only when we rely on others close by can we truly take flight. Sounds corny but anyone who has seen the documentary “Winged Migration” knows the power of family travel while watching grouped birds complete their annual voyage from one pole to another, thousands of miles together. So many people who are no longer in my flight are still with me. They helped me get here. I’m grateful.
Reminds me of a favorite poet, Mary Oliver, who implores us to, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” In her poem “Wild Geese” she nudges everyone to touch imagination and see the life-giving fit, “announcing your place in the family of things.” So much is changing right now and yet I look over to everyone right there flying near. Some gift, truly.
