For the Love of Goth

Every morning I commute the precarious yet gorgeous route 116 to 121 to 29 in order to get to work. On one particular strip of road, somewhere between the turn onto 121 and Clover Stornetta dairy, there is a section dotted with a few businesses and the street is lined with telephone wires.

And every morning I see hundreds of small blackbirds perch on the wires, like beads on a thread about to be tied upon a waiting neck. The air fowl are concentrated in 100 foot stretch within that section. Today the image was especially potent and ominous against a cheerless gray sky; yet I could have watched this community sit, loop, rotate, and re-perch themselves for hours.

I think, if I could be any animal, I would be a bird.