sunnudagur, ágúst 27, 2006


What is that toy called, the dipping bird? The long-necked bird on the axle that dips and dips its beak? Another almost perpetual motion machine. Another representation of a bird that looks nothing like a bird, like those little arched shapes the lazy artist can use to signify birds high up, in flight. But the motion reminds me of real birds, not the rocking but the repetition. The back and forth. Wingbeats. Migrations.

I came in some small part to see the terns, the little brave ones that fly from pole to pole. I almost missed them. And now I will go back. Like plovers, snow geese, or those favorites of -- it doesn't matter whom -- the black-necked, dignified, dark-eyed Canada geese, flying overhead, their clattering cries like Herne's hunt.

Oh, I am hardly so noble.

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