I raced an egret down the levee road yesterday. The line of its wide wings caught the airstream to rise over the path of a crow. As I slowed for the dogleg next to the inlet where the old crane stood for so many years, the white bird banked and made the turn with me. I pressed down on the gas and my car cruised past the Stars & Moon Park, beyond Brother’s Island, to the point where I ran out of public road.
I crossed over the slough by Owl Harbor, glancing towards the sun in the eastern sky just in time to see the egret cut over the road and begin a slow glide. It skimmed the hyacinth and disappeared into the brush between the private part of Brannan Island Road and the public stretch of Twitchell Island. I lingered until I lost sight of its shadow in the tangle of vines on the surface of the water.
In the southwestern sky, Mt. Diablo rose to keep watch. A group of farmworkers stopped their work trucks on the road bisecting the fields between the levee and the Sacramento River. I continued my drive, as the road narrowed and wound in front of houses and worksheds along the slough. Through the low branches of trees, I could see light hit the pale flowers on the stand of water. There had been tiny swans huddled between their parents in the undergrowth here just a few weeks ago. I strained for some sign of them.
Around a curve, I slowed to peer through the branches at a long open stretch of water. Then I saw it: The meeting which the egret must have been eager to join, to fly so low, so fast, with such determination. I glanced in my rearview mirror for oncoming cars, then stopped, shifted to park, and watched.
The group seemed quiet. Once in a while, a bird would rise from the branches, flutter, and shift position. Mostly they just held their pose, waiting, still. A call came from within the trees, perhaps the morning convocation, summoning others not yet landed. Another sound, shriller now. A ripple moved through the group.
It was me, I knew; or the sound of my motor. I had no right; I did not belong. One of them turned a regal head upon a sinewy neck. Although I could not see that far, its gaze seemed to hold mine. Whatever that egret might have been thinking, I took its meaning. I closed my eyes and worked the gear shift. A long involuntary breath expanded my lungs.
When I opened my eyes, the banks had cleared. I studied the unbroken, vibrant green for a long minute; and then continued on my way. Around the next turn, I saw again the gathering of angels, settling for roll call, unconcerned with the passage of a small human along the levee road.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
