Birds! Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands or more swirling, diving and swooping above the Connecticut River. It was described to me as an avian whirlwind, a rainfall with feathers. “I have never witnessed a spectacle more dramatic than the twisting tornadoes of tree swallows I saw plunging from the sky,” wrote the late world-renowned ornithologist and artist Roger Tory Peterson. That was endorsement enough. Holy Capistrano! I had to see for myself.
Late last September, my wife Mary and I slowly motored up the Connecticut River with a couple of friends. It was near dusk. Their boat was a small rectangular craft, not much more than a floating platform with seats. Starting out from Pilgrim Landing in Old Lyme, we headed upstream to the north end of Goose Island, a low marshy oasis thick with phragmites, a tall reed with feathery plumes. Here we cut the engine and waited for the swallows to appear. We were not alone. At least a dozen people in colorful kayaks shared the vigil, some with hors d'oeuvres and cups of wine.
A breeze picked up, sounded a whispering rustle through the dry, tawny reeds. The water rippled slightly; a slate gray so opaque it seemed nearly solid. Above were thin clouds—bars, whisps, and fleecy cumulous shapes. The minutes dragged on. No birds.
With binoculars, I looked for the promised multitudes. I’d put them down and scan the sky with my naked eye. Having recently consulted a field guide, I knew what I was looking for, and almost imagined them into existence. Tree swallows are an iridescent dark blue-green above and pure white below. They are agile, acrobatic flyers and highly social. Cavity nesters, they typically find woodpecker-carved holes in old trees, or nesting boxes made by people. Voracious insect eaters, they usually live close to waterbodies where prey is common.
At last, we saw a single swallow, then another. We sighted a pair. Then all was quiet. Would the huge, storied flocks arrive? Viewing a living natural event is always a gamble. We were prepared to be disappointed. Still, we hoped.
While we waited, I thought of Peterson. He lived for more than four decades in Old Lyme, just a little down river of where we were floating. He’d traveled the world looking at birds, and yet discovered this phenomenon just a couple of years before he died at age 87. Whether we saw the great avian swarms tonight or not, I was buoyed by the notion that undiscovered marvels of nature might still exist close to home, undetected even by brilliant observers of the natural world.
Six birds flew low, right over us. We saw a dozen in the distance and soon a dozen more. Suddenly the sky became peppered with birds, then more birds, many more than could be counted. The air was quickly filled with vortices of black moving dots, pulsating, ever shifting. They coalesced and split apart in a series of continuous whirlwinds.
Though I was sitting still, my heart was throbbing, energized by these clouds of rapidly moving, ever-shifting particles. I became possessed by a childlike wonder, and joyous warmth rose in my chest. The air was alive with thousands upon thousands of diving and gliding swallows.
I was awestruck by whatever DNA destiny drew them here on their annual migration south. Here they’d gorge on the ubiquitous insects that lived around the marshy island, gaining strength for the long trip. Powerful biological forces were at work. I was humbled. Just a tiny, insignificant part of the living world.
Flying low overhead, the swallows swooped upward in arcs, danced in undulating waves. If music could be expressed in mere movement, we were reaching the crescendo of a grand romantic era symphony. But the birds uttered their own accompaniment, a continuous high-pitched liquid twitter punctuated by several distinct notes.
Suddenly, as if they’d fallen off a cliff, a great waterfall of birds dropped into the reeds on Goose Island and disappeared. The avian tornado was gone. The sky was instantly clear. We heard them on the roost among the phragmites, but the wind picked up and their voices faded. Light was rapidly leaking out of the sky. A reddening band appeared along the western horizon. I felt happily drained, out of breath.
