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Thursday, January 05, 2006


One of the joys of birding is experiencing regular flybys. This morning, two of the neighbor crows zipped past my car as I was heading out to work. During my afternoon walk, several Mourning Doves flew across the field and through the trees.

The great thing about flybys, is that you don't know where the birds are coming from, or where they are going. It is just a few short shared moments in the otherwise discontinuous lives of the bird and the observer. Like art, a bird flyby is reality frozen in a moment. The coming from and going to is a mystery, and stands for all the other comings and goings in our lives.

Usually, if we think about it, we want to know more. More about where the bird is coming from, where it is going, how it spends the rest of its time. But that is only when we think about it. For most of us, the flyby is just a flash. Just a brief moment that may or may not even register. Like the passing of clouds, or a thought. Birds come and go. Like the feathered winds that they are.

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