by Deborah Carr
Moving as if to the sweep of a conductor's baton, they flow off the beach like a tide of liquid mercury, then swoop into the air, a dark ribbon smudge against the August sky. As if on prearranged cue, they bank as one and the flock metamorphoses, revealing the flashing white of ten thousand underbellies caught in the glory of the setting sun. A dance of precision and grace. Read more
Moving as if to the sweep of a conductor's baton, they flow off the beach like a tide of liquid mercury, then swoop into the air, a dark ribbon smudge against the August sky. As if on prearranged cue, they bank as one and the flock metamorphoses, revealing the flashing white of ten thousand underbellies caught in the glory of the setting sun. A dance of precision and grace. Read more
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