The 8th Sign of the Apocalypse...

... Karen actually submits a post. I've been to Plum Island almost every day for the past week-- it's tree swallow migration time, a new end of summer/beginning of fall ritual for me to enjoy. Every evening around sunset, thousands-- and I mean thousands-- of tree swallows sweep over the island as they prepare to roost for the night.

So I leave work, drive to the Parker River Wildlife Refuge, and park in the dirt lot at the "North Pool Overlook"-- a favorite roosting place of said swallows. After drowning myself liberally in insect repellant, I ensconce myself on the hood of my car, and spend the next few hours watching the show. To my right, unbelievable sunsets over the river-- even though it's August, the slight evening chill of fall has been in the air, and the sunsets are decidedly fall-like as well. More pink and orange with lots of streaky clouds than the humid hazy reds of high summer. To my left, the moon-rise over the scrub pines. And all around me, swarming, swirling-- swallows, swallows, swallows.

They come in waves, sweeping the fields and then up over the dike and skimming the pond, in a pre-bedtime feeding frenzy. The air is thick with them, and they chatter incessantly as they swirl, oblivious to anything-- or anyone-- in their way. It's like being in a giant snowglobe that someone has just shaken frantically; they sweep so close to me that I could reach out and grab one if only I were quick enough.

And then, in the blink of an eye, as though one single bird has perhaps given the grand cue, they roost.

Silence.

I drive home with the windows down and the radio off, feeling like I'm 13 and there just might be a door to a magical land at the back of my closet...