I cannot tell time accuractely by looking at the sun.
I can, however, tell time by the flock of gray pigeons that flies from rooftop to rooftop every afternoon outside my office.
In the mornings they’re dispursed around Saratoga, but I know that when I see them gather together and fly in formation it’s 3pm. Set your watch by it. If I were a pigeon kidnapper, I would put out my nets at 3pm and just wait. I’ve wondered why they do it. My best guess is that it’s the height of the afternoon heat and there are hot air currents rising off the street that they can ride? Does that sound scientific enough?
I know that pigeon watching doesn’t sound that exciting, but I get a little shot of adrenaline when the flock flies near my window, their white underwings flashing. Flapping wings, sharply changing direction in synchronized flight and landing on the chimneys across the street…
Knowing that they’re animals acting out of instint is one thing, but also knowing that they were made for this is another. That’s what makes it beautiful, and my being present to watch them act out their nature and purpose is my treat.
At this point in my life, I’m not fortunate enough to be working in a place that I was made for. I do have faith that the place is out there, and when I think of that place my heart surges. I guess I’m a pigeon who hasn’t found her flock yet. Just working on setting out my net and catching them at the right time.