Against the park rules, we are swinging at a playground near my apartment. I am the oldest; he the tallest. A phosphorescent mass suddenly moves above us. It’s magical, but not. I’d wager it’s a combination of birds and sunlight.
He isn’t so quick to agree. Off the swing, he cranes his neck high and walks around. Thinks about emissions from flying vehicles, maybe feels paranoid. It’s New York City on an unsuspecting religious holiday, after all. We are full and sleepy in jackets and long sleeves.
In the end, he concedes it must be birds. We can kind of make out a flap of wings, if we stare long enough at one point in the distance.
“They must be commuting,” he murmurs.
“You mean migrating?”
We’ve been in New York way too long.
You are way too smug for your own good.
Thanks. I’ve been working on it.