RUSTLING WINGS 



and there the wood swallows began the 

 play, the waves lapping the overture. 

 Hidden in the cover of sand plums, 

 I waited to see what would happen. 

 The volley that had flown over my head 

 shifted, neared twice, then parted, and 

 finally settled all around, with the 

 sound that only wings or winds make, 

 yes, even on the bunch of sea-lavender 

 that I was holding. 



The most startling thing was the 

 flock impulse binding them together. 

 In the spring an individual bird sings 

 an individual song, and if you have 

 keen ears you may detect that no two 

 birds of a species have precisely the 

 same intonation, and some birds, as 

 the song-sparrow for instance, vary 

 their theme until even their identity is 

 puzzling. Each woos for himself an 

 individual mate, with the exception of 

 one or two vagabonds, and builds a 



