Driving home due west into the sunset, I am treated every night to the most amazing sherbet shades of lemon, raspberry, apricot and orange. Flowing across these mouthwatering colors is the long river of migration. The birds are high but their long black lines, stark against the sunset, flow steadily south; undulating up and down, clustering then thinning out, until I am able to pick out one bird silhouetted against the dying day. There, for just a moment, I track a lone Blue Jay as he separates from his fellows. A cold front has come in and restless winter winds are on their way. The urgency has peaked. It is time to be away to the warm lands of perpetual summer.
Brake lights wink out, traffic starts to move and when I look back up, the river of birds has passed. I keep one eye to the sky for the rest of my drive into the mountains but the light fails long before I make the turn north to creep through the now dark hollows.
For the next few weeks, until the light changes and I leave my office in full dark, I will try to time my evening departure to coincide with the crepuscular flow of birds in migration.