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No inveterate birdwatcher I, but spring brings clouds of wheeling, soaring Bohemian Waxwings through our neighbourhood, and lucky, I witness their buoyant society. Like a school of airborn minnows, these birds have traded their individuality for an existence so telepathic that one is in awe of a phenomenon that might just as well be called group-mind. With a whirring roar, hundreds descend into our Mountain Ash's March branches festooned as they are with red berry clusters and feed voraciously on the little touches of ethanol produced by last fall's berry-rot. Inebriate, their instantaneous response mechanism still intact, they revel in taking off within a millisecond of one another, and, following no leader, they gyrate wildly in a huge, wheeling roar of waxwings before landing, as one, in the tree again for another Ashberry wine sip. I raise my glass to their society; I join them in both spirit and spirits. One is ever a wheeler with a crowd of wheelers -- a seemingly aimless, even tiresome, pastime; but every once in a while a tree laden with Ashberry sustenance appears and one rests. One revives. One hails the Ash, the Crowd, the Wine. |
