The post promised an autumnal birding phenomenon not to be missed. Steph wasn’t really a birder—she could never tell one sparrow from another—but she did like birds. The local nature site urged anyone interested to show up just before dusk at a reservoir in the hills of Bucks County. There they would watch as a large flock of starlings swooped and tumbled in a remarkable, unified movement called a murmuration.
She reached out to several friends, but no one could make it. And Claire was gone; Claire, who had given Steph a rudimentary lesson on birds several years before. Steph didn’t know if Claire had ever seen the starling flock. She would go, alone, in memory of her friend.
When she arrived at the nature center, a tangerine sun sat on the horizon. A handful of cars filled the lot, and a knot of people stood outside the building entrance, which was flanked by several large pumpkins and a scarecrow. Steph made her way to the group, adjusting her binoculars around her neck. The center director, a woman in a blue down vest and a wool watch cap, was already talking.
“We’ll take the boardwalk to the lake shore,” the director said. “That’s the best place to see the birds. They’ll start arriving within the next fifteen to twenty minutes.”
Intimidated by what she thought of as “true” birders, Steph hung at the back of the group as they set off toward the lake. The slight October breeze made her zip her fleece jacket and pull out her mittens. It carried a faint whiff of fireplace smoke and moldering vegetation. Dried leaves scuttled along the wooden planks and crunched under hiking boots, and a handful of crows cawed overhead. Claire would have been at the front of the line, pulling Steph along, making her feel at home and welcome despite her limited knowledge of avian life.
Many birds are like people. They prefer to hang out in groups. That was a bit of Claire wisdom Steph dredged up as she walked. But Steph was more of a loner. More like a heron, she decided, preferring to watch the world by herself. Except. She missed Claire.
“Everyone!” the center director shouted. “The starlings are starting to gather across the lake. Keep an eye on the small flocks. They’ll merge into bigger and bigger groups.”
Focusing the binoculars at the far shore, Steph swept them up and around, listening as others in the group called out. Sure enough a small flock dipped and turned in the distance. Another flock appeared to the left. Yet another materialized. Soon the flocks became one—a large swirling mass of dark birds dancing to their own feathered rhythm.
“Oh, Claire,” Steph breathed. If only she could have seen this magical phenomenon.
As if in answer, the now-large flock swooped upward as one entity and curved to the right. The trailing birds formed a line, and the complete symbol became the letter C.
In a whisper on the wind, Steph could have sworn she heard Claire’s voice: Even herons need companionship. Don’t be afraid to reach out.
More of Dianna’s Stories
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Today was her birthday, but her closest friends were busy, so Nicole took herself out to dinner. The Purple Potted Plant was her favorite restaurant for special occasions, and this year qualified as one: her fortieth.
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The post promised an autumnal birding phenomenon not to be missed. Steph wasn’t really a birder—she could never tell one sparrow from another—but she did like birds.
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An overnight stay at a small New England inn proves a challenge when the guests in the next room launch their own plans for the evening.
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In the shade of a red maple, Ana helped spread the tablecloth over the picnic table and stepped back to let her family lay out the food: tuna salad, pasta salad, chips, grapes, strawberries, brownies, muffins.
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Emma worked her way through the tables of used books laid out at a community fair in Bucks County. Books! As if she didn’t have enough of them on her bookcases and her bedside table. Balancing an armful of books—mysteries, a literary classic, two romances—she spied a familiar cover.
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