Two swifts came pell-mell along the street, fearless, in a huge arc from above and just missing my head - for the briefest moment I took a look into the face of one of them, the open smiling beak, and the quick alert eye like a black pearl. I heard the air rushing over them and then they were gone, screaming their way upward, feasting on bugs riding the warm spring air. I was left reeling, breathlessly laughing at the event.
In the evening, we took the route along the River Derwent, heading North West out through the hamlet of How. Where the road ended we stopped and watched a gathering of Swallows race over the pasture. They flew no more than six inches from the ground, following every curve and tussock easily. Something mesmeric about them: their pace, their electric energy and that metallic blueness in their plumage, vivid and sure. Every so often they would wheel out from the meadow and head directly over our heads, coming close and whistling as they went as if they were laughing with absolute glee; flashing their pale bellies, then returning once again to cover ground and feed. The sheep and cows in the meadow chewed on, inching their way to the southern end, gently watching with those sad gold eyes, the lambs oddly silent as they tagged along.
Close to the waters edge we passed through a glade of bluebells, knotted oaks, and the odd pale daffodil, the perfect fairy-tale glade, then took the furthest stile into the next field of recently calved heifers with their young. The river here ran fast and threw itself about over boulders and shale; here and there banks of sand and rock broke the surface and on one a Grey Wagtail jumped for midges and bugs on the wing. The bird almost somersaulting, catching its prey, then landing back on the ground and bobbing its tail to some hidden rhythm of expectation and achievement. Then it repeated and repeated until its beak was a knot of lacewings and grubby bodies. We wondered how it might get any more in, there didn't seem to be room left in its beak. But it rose again, somersaulted, caught what it was after and landed, checked itself then flew behind us toward the narrow tree line at the edge of the field. Moments later it returned and was joined by the female. They spent the next twenty minutes or so engaged in this acrobatic catching of prey; flurries of yellow, grey and white as they span and twisted just above the water, even on odd occasions dipping the beak in the stream if necessary.
Keswick, Cumbria
7/5/06
In the evening, we took the route along the River Derwent, heading North West out through the hamlet of How. Where the road ended we stopped and watched a gathering of Swallows race over the pasture. They flew no more than six inches from the ground, following every curve and tussock easily. Something mesmeric about them: their pace, their electric energy and that metallic blueness in their plumage, vivid and sure. Every so often they would wheel out from the meadow and head directly over our heads, coming close and whistling as they went as if they were laughing with absolute glee; flashing their pale bellies, then returning once again to cover ground and feed. The sheep and cows in the meadow chewed on, inching their way to the southern end, gently watching with those sad gold eyes, the lambs oddly silent as they tagged along.
Close to the waters edge we passed through a glade of bluebells, knotted oaks, and the odd pale daffodil, the perfect fairy-tale glade, then took the furthest stile into the next field of recently calved heifers with their young. The river here ran fast and threw itself about over boulders and shale; here and there banks of sand and rock broke the surface and on one a Grey Wagtail jumped for midges and bugs on the wing. The bird almost somersaulting, catching its prey, then landing back on the ground and bobbing its tail to some hidden rhythm of expectation and achievement. Then it repeated and repeated until its beak was a knot of lacewings and grubby bodies. We wondered how it might get any more in, there didn't seem to be room left in its beak. But it rose again, somersaulted, caught what it was after and landed, checked itself then flew behind us toward the narrow tree line at the edge of the field. Moments later it returned and was joined by the female. They spent the next twenty minutes or so engaged in this acrobatic catching of prey; flurries of yellow, grey and white as they span and twisted just above the water, even on odd occasions dipping the beak in the stream if necessary.
Keswick, Cumbria
7/5/06
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