Blame the swans

Note: contains mild sexual content and profanity

For only a few short weeks a year, the starlings took flight over the loch’s of Mullingar. Among many others, they attracted Grace and Ruaidhrí once before, and tonight again.

Remember our first murmurations?

Offering Ruaidhrí a plastic cup of steaming black coffee, Grace recalled the icy wind that ripped across Loch Ennel the year before, burning their open cheeks as they stared off into the distance, far over to the western shore, hoping to see the starlings fly. She remembered how the grey of the evening wasn’t limited to the day’s, the shallow sky covered with empty clouds. Ireland in March made many promises.

I remember the nights becoming shorter, that’s for sure.

Do you remember the starlings? How the papers said it was a sight to behold when they soared across the water. It was my favorite part of February.

March, remember. Shorter nights.

Grace folded her arms over her knees, pulling them to her chest. The rock under her cold and if sat long enough, damp. In the distance, she could see the makings of what might be birds flocking together, twisping, a strange spot of dark fog that moved fast then faded out. Ruaidhrí had his arm out, finger pointing at the spot, the flock curling in on themselves like drops of black ink in water.

They’re here, she said.

Ruaidhrí sat further up, eye squinting. They sat for a while, waiting for more.

Where did it all go wrong? she asked.

Damned if I knew. But I’m guessing the end began here. Right next to this rock.

With the murmurations?

With the swans.

“We’re too early. They said sunset.”

“Let’s walk. You never regret a walk or a swim.”

They walked, waiting with the starlings for sunset. Ruaidhrí planted his feet shoulder width from each other, his gaze still distant in search. Grace stood behind Ruaidhrí, her arms under his, wrapped across his chest.

“It’s golden hour,” he said “Should we take some photos?”

“My hair is a mess.”

“Not of you,” Ruaidhrí said motioning with a thumb over his shoulder to the swans, slapping the surface of the lake as they took off, only to splash down a short distance further with wild whooping grunts. “Let’s photograph the swans?”

Like words, pictures never capture the true reticence of the swan’s gentle glide on the clear water, the sunset like emeralds across the rippled surface behind them. Ruaidhrí took a few pictures of the swans then turned the lens toward Grace. She made an attempt at her mess of hair, giving up. She smiled at him over the camera, a natural beaming smile.

“Do you think we could sell these?

“And live in a wooden cabin on the edge of the lake, taking pictures, selling them online?” Ruaidhrí lowered the camera, taking her in.

“Maybe the Examiner would want them?”

“Someone on the internet, maybe.”

“Nobody buys pictures of swans on the internet, I am afraid.”

With a sideways glance, Grace’s lips curled into a wicked smile. She pulled at her puffer, then her undershirt, exposing a pale breast aglow with dawn. Ruaidhrí took a quick snap of her.

“We could absolutely sell these on the internet. Be millionaires.”

”Billionaires.”

He took her hand, led her to the waters edge where they found a rock big enough for both, and perched on it, arms locked into each other.

“We should buy a boat,” she said, pausing to catch a glimpse of him. “I’m sure they’re somewhere out there already. We just have to find them.”

“If we had a boat we could go looking, instead of waiting,” he said.

The sun was set now.

“It’s the only way, with a boat. One of those darkwood ones with the sharp varnish. You’ll have to get leather deck shoes and a linen shirt that opens over your chest.”

”A fancy boat. Check. I assume we buy it with our millions? And the sun I also. If the plan is to go bird watching in February (March) on a boat wearing an open linen shirt, I am assuming we need to buy the sun.”

There in the distance, a dark spot withered on the last light of the distant sky. Ruaidhrí peered through his camera, turned the zoom dial. Then held it out for Grace and told her to take it.

He watched as a frown formed into her fragile winter skin, pursing her violet lips. He watched her invest herself. He watched her resign with a sigh, her shoulders drop.

”Rather underwhelming isn’t it?” she said.

He couldn’t disagree more.

It was an hour, wasn’t it?

Can’t remember.

Yes, we sat there … actually, it was right here on this rock, wasn’t it? We sat here for over an hour, waiting for the starlings. Until night came and they never did. We waited for nothing.

Not for nothing, no.

We came to see the murmurations, did we see them?

We saw them. They did come.

We saw something in the distance, yes. We needed a camera and an expensive zoom lense to see them.

Darkness had been setting, the two of them on their rock peering off in the direction of what should have been a newly set sun had the clouds allowed it.

But what about the swans?

“Let’s go,” she said.

There far on the other side, Ruaidhrí noticed two spots marry, forming a proper murmur that was almost visible even to the naked eye, even as it got dark. Ruaidhrí had his good eye back behind the lens.

Grace hopped off the rock, walked to the edge of the water and began skipping pebbles. The first one always decent, the second always straight underwater. As she lined up another, she told Ruaidhrí she was getting cold and hungry, while throwing it. This was by far her best.

“Five minutes, then we can go,” Ruaidhrí said, his visible eye still pinched shut. It bothered Grace that he kept his eye closed with such force. As though just relaxing it will never do the same thing.

Grace counted to sixty in her head, crossed her arms, counted to thirty-four, then skipped two more pebbles.

”Jesus, Ruaidhrí.”

Ruaidhrí lowered the camera, sighed through his nose. He closed his eyes for a second, then took a final look through the lens, licking his lips, turning the zoom. A black mass, like a swarm of locusts had now gathered, dipping and diving, warping.

He heard the car door slam.

You took hours to get in the car. You always take hours with everything.

Grace tipped the last bit of coffee into her mouth. The murmurations, as far as she was concerned, had again failed to materialize. The swans were there again. She hopped off the rock, walked up to the water’s edge and knelt down. with her phone out, she took a few pictures of the swans closest to her. The shades of grey that colored the evening did nothing for the photos.

Ruaidhrí handed Grace his mug.

I think these are actually yours, she said

You can keep them.

“Next year,” Ruaidhrí said, eyes forward, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “I’ll ask the farmer across the lake if we can park there on his lands. I think it might be closer.”

”I thought we’ll have a boat,” she said, a smile back on her face. “Ah, shit”, she said, hopping out of the car, her hand into her pocket and out with a rock. “Forgot about this one.”

With a long front-footed step toward the water, she threw the rock into what was now only a black void.

Then a damp thud, followed by the trumpet of swans.