The Passing Parade

A whoosh of wings stroke the cool morning air as a magpie flies overhead, pinion feathers lit by low slanting sunlight. Black, white and gilt against the pale blue sky. Moments later it flies back, with four others. I wonder at the communication, the rallying of the others to come hither. Or maybe I have that completely wrong. Maybe the magpie I first saw is not in the five that I saw next. I’m assuming, reading motive and action into scant evidence.