Vista 9

November 19

They circle in the sky, churning the air at the hands of some invisible diviner. He brushes a palm against the breeze and leads them over to the trees. They settle, there, black and ferocious feathers fraying against his breath. They wait, hovering over the streets, the people, uncertain, afraid. Light fades, the opaque paleness of a sun trapped in his cold breath. He exhales, and against the last fleeting light, they break from the trees, and a thousand dark shadows, silhouetted, erupt back into the sky.

The birds. Today they appeared in bellicose flocks, surveying the valley of Shadyside in repeated circuits before retiring to the treetops. There they perched ominously, ruffling their feathers in some pre-war ritual, reporting their findings, planning their next moves. I watched them from the hill, curious. And then just as I thought I might be able to infiltrate, perhaps understand what they’re doing here, they took off, thousands, all at once, without any warning, proving for certain that they are up to no good.

I have never been afraid of birds. I am not afraid of birds. But as I walk down the hill and onto the streets that I’ve just overlooked from my vista, I hunch my shoulders, throw my hood over my forehead. The birds have settled on branches extending over my very street. Crows, I see now. I hear flapping, repeated flapping. I run into the middle of the street. Don’t run in the street, I think. But I feel safer here, all of a sudden. Some of the birds are swooping from the trees, like charger planes, diving low to the ground, and I don’t dare cross their path.

On the hill I was not afraid, I suppose because they were so distant. Like a cyclone their tiny specks of bodies swirled, forming some miniature dark milky way in the sky over Shadyside. I could not hear them either, as they sat distant from me in the trees. I watched, interested, though removed.

Now the trees are moving as I hurry toward my home. In the dark, they are worming, writhing with the birds’ ruffling wings, their twitching heads. I hear a screech, like a dinosaur, not a bird. I pick up my pace. These creatures have infiltrated the whole neighborhood, declared war on my street.

Go on, I think. They’re not here for long. To the next place, go on. They’ve unsettled me, darkened my street with their black bodies. I can almost feel the oil from their feathers, their boniness. How horrifying if one should flutter past my face.

The breeze changes, and in one day, my home feels unsafe, the familiar becomes foreign. I am frightened of what before would never frighten me. Today was cold, and tomorrow will be warm again. I suppose I am still unsettled here, though maybe not. I want the birds to leave. They’ve outstayed their welcome.