PELICANS
By
G. Alexander Virden
Copyright 1995
The sun, framed by cotton ball clouds, is just far enough into its morning climb to be bright and yellow-white. Islands, from several hundred yards in length, to tufts of brown marsh grass, a few feet across, are scattered around the shallow bay. My diver trainee is in the water cutting a ditch, under a pipe line laid out by the gas company that occasionally pays my bills. I sit next to the radio, my mind searching in an empty file drawer. The old un-powered work barge suffers from rust and has blackened colors that make her somehow congruous with the water, as if she were one of the islands. And I sit, washed upon her shore, listening to the dive-radio, thinking of nothing and dreaming of life.
From the edge of my vision I catch some movement. I glance and see a snowy pelican. A huge bird, with black tipped wings, gliding right off the stern, six inches above the green rippling surface of the water. I look up. Right behind him is another.
The first rises six, seven, feet without any perceptible effort. The other follows him exactly, waiting to reach the same place before turning upward. Turning my head I see ten more pelicans behind the second. By the time the first has returned to skimming height the last has just begun his ascent. They all execute, the ripple, at the precise point the first started to climb. Then follow him down, each waiting for the bird in front to flap his wings, for two powerful strokes, before returning to a glide half a foot from the bay. The staccato movement is like the first film, of a bird in flight, one frame at a time.
Then I realize about thirty birds trail in a line, and second and third squadrons move up, to the left and right. Bombers, they are too large for fighters, yet more graceful, flying in perfect formation. The second and third groups fan out, from the center line, forming flawlessly into Vs, mirroring the very image of flight.
Looking back as they move across the bay, I see hundreds of birds. The sun burns the whites of their perfectly rigid backs upon the negative of my mind, blinding my eye to all else. The formations stretch for over a quarter of a mile in all directions, with some birds only a few feet from me.
They are a kind of third reality, all moving impeccably together without a sound.
Though nothing blocks the horizon, I can see no end of the flock moving toward me.
Looking forward, the first to pass, are now black tipped diamonds, over the marsh. They appear as crepe paper strips, tied to an invisible wind. Rising and falling as much as a hundred feet in the air, all following the slightest twitch to the left or right as they glide effortlessly through the morning sky.
The strings and squadrons begin to dwindle, but I can still see countless birds flying to the curve the earth, all following the lead of the first.
The last of the flock passes by and I move to the other end of the barge to be closer to them. Becoming suddenly aware of my own existence, my heart beats as if my body was fighting for life. I chuckled and laughed. With tears in my eyes, I turn slowly, feeling them pass. I want their freedom. I want to be that in tune.
A group of twenty more comes by, still following the path of the first. In their urgency, to join the others, they fan into a V. Flapping their wings more often, and together, missing bits of the winding path left by the others.
Several moments after the stragglers pass, one last bird comes by. He does not glide. His powerful strokes are that of an Olympic swimmer racing with the butterfly stroke. He does not deviate with the currents of the wind. His path is straight. His wing tips so close to the water they should make a splash, yet he remains dry. His eyes are focused ahead and I can feel the strength of his desire in my heart. I can feel the power of his wings in my shoulders, and arms, as he passes by too quickly. I long to have him stay frozen with me for a moment, to feel his heart beat with mine again.
Unbelievably, on the horizon, I can still see the flock. I watch them and him, as he rapidly gains on the others who had fallen behind the flock. He is incredible. He is freedom. He is the last pelican to pass. My heart is flying, yet I am at peace, for I have felt beauty in its purest form. I have felt life.
A small white bird drops from the sky. The white flash draws my attention, as the bird collides with the bay. He rises with a fish, much larger than it seems he could hold and still fly. I breathe deeply and watch him as he carries his catch away. I savor the beauty of the bay and thank, the mother of creation, for sharing, with me, this day.
The End
Ozarts Inside Ozarts Grand View Stories By the Baron