Homeward winds are blowing. A few days ago avoiding the crowds of commuters I chose a secondary road, and slowed down in every manner. Suddenly a pair of
swans glided overhead scarcely twenty feet above me, looking like large white paper kites sailing quartered into the wind, aiming for a distant wetland on the edge of the horizon. They might’ve returned from their hiatus spent in warmer climes, stopping over on a long migration north to nesting grounds. I quickly lowered the windows hoping to catch the distinctive air whistling through wing feathers announcing their arrival, but whatever sounds they might’ve made were snatched away by the breeze; I only heard the rattle of dry reeds in the ditches.
Yesterday morning on a different road in the same state of mind I passed a kestrel sitting on a telephone wire. Tiny black eyes scanned the grasses below, and with feathers fluffed out against the brisk wind it sat perfectly still, waiting for it’s next victim. Though I had the windows down I heard no
calls. It’s plumage blended in with the rusty browns of earth and field, grass and scrub, and all quickly receded into the background of another workday commute.
Today with another dollar made and workday behind me, I took a busier road through tangled traffic heading north. Whored out pimped up pickups and suvs hassled each other for bragging rights to every exit, while I docilely chose the slow lane behind a sensibly driven semi, waiting for the wasteland of strip malls and box stores to peter out. I chuckled at the angry chromed and polished crowd zigzagging around puddles lest they splash their black velvet tires and bright shiny rims with dirty water. Machismo indeed. But soon enough I had the paved path all to myself, nary a four-wheeled creature in sight. Five miles down the road I saw the gothic semblance of two crows holding court over a road kill, their brethren circling overhead. I slowed and dropped my windows to listen to the raucous calls; their black feathers like starless midnight skies, pushed askew by the late winter wind. Shades of charcoal and soot showed underneath, giving them a funereal appearance. I once had the privilege of having a pair of crows perch on my arm feeding them, while a biologist recorded various signs of health. They're remarkably
intelligent, and I felt somewhat intimidated by their haughty glare and bold demeanor. Being human offered me no guarantee of superiority in that aviary.
With only a few miles to go a sudden winter squall blew in, scattering confetti flakes of snow, reminding me that spring is not quite here yet. With all the windows down I let the cool March air wash over me, and like a bird on a wire, fluffed up my woolen scarf and pushed out my canvas coat, hoping the changing winds might at last deliver me home.
But my bees were flying in the afternoon sun, so I'm in a good mood. 
