Unjaded

 

I watched a pewit laying claim to the field by the slant and tilt of its display flight. The far end, the two sides, the part nearest to me—stitching the airspace together as it looped the lapwing loop.

On paddle-wings it rowed, quartered the ground, almost touching the tussock tips. Then up, straight up, as if yanked on strings, as if it were its own puppeteer.

As it descended again, each tumbled zig, each hairpin zag, was accompanied by sound.

'Kreee-ow-wee! Krrrrrr-click-ick-ick!'

Squeaky swing, rolling rattle, bubbles of laughing cuckoo clock. All finished off with a deep, throbbing

'Vwooo-vwooo-vwooo'

...from its wings—singing with feathers, slipping through cracks in the sky.

I've seen this many times. But have I actually - seen - it? This performance - joyful, yet full of unnecessary extravagance - so it seems.

I think my younger self would have seen this and made a mental note: 'lapwing display flight'. Audited it into matter of factness —'the second today. Not seen here last year'... skimmed all the magic off, then moved on.

And yesterday evening, I listened to a singing silhouette in the garden—a bird, a broken-off piece of the night to come—a blackbird. I've heard many blackbirds before, but have I actually - heard - one?

Heard the way it sculpts air into mountain stream, then honey, then spun gold—just with song. Heard it so it makes me shiver, makes me laugh, makes me cry.

Maybe it comes with the realization that my time on this planet, with its blackbirds and lapwings... is limited.

As I get older, I don't seem to be getting jaded. In fact, the opposite—I am unjaded.

When I was young, I was immortal, and blackbird song would never end. Lapwings would always loop on lapping wings.

Now blackbirds and lapwings sing of mortality. That's a sadder song.

That's an infinitely more precious song.

Get this