Jeff leads Eva through thick underbrush toward the river. There is a place he knows. He has spent hours there, researching riverine habitats. He wants her to see it.
She has no rubber boots; she hopes her thick wool socks will be some protection. She gamely follows him. She watches his back as he follows an imaginary path. She notices his surprisingly delicate hands, the way they firmly pull low-hanging branches out of the way for her. The canopy of trees gives way to shrubs.
They walk over a ridge before reaching a downhill slope. She trips on a log. He catches her, and then all at once the sky opens out; diffuse light reflects on the water surface. A faint moon rises downriver. “Oh,” she whispers. The air vibrates with sound. Crickets chirp frantically, as if warding off the coming winter. Peepers croak their late season mating calls. The chorus echoes across the water and fills the mild evening.
Jeff points to a rock big enough for two. Flocks of bank swallows are chasing insects, skimming the water’s surface. They tweet and chirp overhead, she can almost hear a fluttering wing. Then the whole flock veers to the opposite bank. Some of them sing from a tree perch over there. “A murmuration,” Lyman says. Eva looks up in surprise: how romantic that sounds.
He notices her look, chuckles. “I didn’t make that up,” he says. “See, the swallows are gathering for fall migration now. And look, there are other kinds of birds too. Together, they become a giant mass of birds. It’s like a cloud that moves through the air.” He points. “So many wings, it does sound like murmuring, doesn’t it.”
“What a lovely word,” she says, and smiles.
“Yeah,” he says, and trails off. A frown appears. “Here’s hoping that their nesting places are still there for them in South America . . .”
“Still there? How do you mean? Why?”
He looks at her. “Why? Housing developments, and roads; farmland, clearcuts.” He shakes his head. “And climate change. All of that.”
“Oh right, of course. . .”
.