Tuesday, May 22, 2018
Hunting
Yesterday I was by the ocean.
I love watching shore birds: the ones that fly high, the ones that fly low, the ones that run back and forth plucking bugs out of the sand with long thin beaks as the water goes up and back.
One was soaring, heading away from me. Then it wheeled around sharply, dove, and plucked a fish out of the water. The white bird's action was elegant and smooth and violent; from the fish's perspective it was an abject tragedy. But what a move! To see a fish swimming under the water, to know where it would be in a few second, to time a dive just right, to grab it without drowning, even just to fly!
And yet the bird does not know that this is remarkable. None of us do, when we are the ones flying and diving.
I love watching shore birds: the ones that fly high, the ones that fly low, the ones that run back and forth plucking bugs out of the sand with long thin beaks as the water goes up and back.
One was soaring, heading away from me. Then it wheeled around sharply, dove, and plucked a fish out of the water. The white bird's action was elegant and smooth and violent; from the fish's perspective it was an abject tragedy. But what a move! To see a fish swimming under the water, to know where it would be in a few second, to time a dive just right, to grab it without drowning, even just to fly!
And yet the bird does not know that this is remarkable. None of us do, when we are the ones flying and diving.
