The Gaggle

We have heard them in the night, on our last late walks, when the traffic on Bowles has ceased and the lights in the apartment complex wink out as we pass beneath them. We heard them last night over the snow, gathering in the golf course behind us, their voices loud and disrespectful of the deep, warm dreaming occurring all around them. Night snow has a way of hushing the world even as it amplifies every sound––the bending of a blade of grass under its soft icy weight, the gentle whisper of cloudy flakes rushing like exhaled breath over the empty and naked streets, the mingling crystalline jangle of ice settling in the pine needles––and their voices were almost a roar in the stillness, their heavy beating wings a ridiculous chant hidden just above and around us in the blowing mist. We know they were coming and Duncan is waiting for them, waiting to drive them from one edge of the park to the next, waiting to pull me behind him as he lunges through the drifts, against the wind, tireless in his pursuit.

It will be a long hunt, but the light is finally on our side.