We hear the frenzied click-clacking and trumpeted honks before spotting the swelling throng, our necks twisting in the wind craning to catch a glimpse; the gathering of birds advancing as one entity—heel toe kick, heel toe kick—like Alvin Ailey dancers in hot pink leotard, the synchronized clusters glide along the cerulean blue of the estuary, poised, straight-backed, noses thrust high into the air, heads flagging from side to side, the ebullient mating calls deafening as the procession advances; their dance fierce and without end until all have paired, for life—heel toe kick, heel toe kick. Marvin is missing the whole thing, futzing with his Nikon, beside me. Ultra-wide-angle, super-telephoto, circular fisheye.... nothing new, he often misses the big picture and the little ones too. Yesterday back at the hotel, when I asked him what he thought about the charming young couple sitting across from us at dinner recounting thrilling stories about their eco-tourism excursion whale-watching, he hadn't heard a word. Here, I spot the pair farther down the river, so close— almost standing in the same footprint—sharing the thrill of this event arm-in-arm. Turning back to the pageant, blushing and bleeding and blinding pink, I marvel at the devotion and promise of this ritual. The effort these creatures put into selecting a mate, the fervour of their dance, the ache in their hearts; hyperextended legs, petits jetés, flamboyant bobs, twerking and whirling; flaunting the best they have to offer. Not giving up till the deal is sealed. No looking back, no cold feet. I gesticulate and caterwaul for Marvin to look...Look...LOOK, as the procession sails on by. But he is busy doing that clucking, tutting, and twisty thing he does with his tongue; head down niggling and piggling with wide apertures and miniscule settings. There is a flurry of wings from the left flank as matched pairs begin to take off into the wide expanse of sky, hurried pedaling with elongated feet gaining initial flying speed; bright crimson and vermillion wings tapping, snapping, flapping until airborne—forever in alignment. I look over at Marvin clutching his SLR and wonder... what does he see. 357 words Published in South Florida Poetry Journal - Flash Fiction Issue , May 2021
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
No part of these stories / blog may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied form without written permission of the author, Karen Schauber
Contact Karen Schauber for written permission Archives
April 2024
Visit: http://GroupofSevenFlashFiction.weebly.comCategories |