Gathering on the wing they cast a shadow over whatever we may be doing. Coming from forgotten yesterdays they whirl chattering toward their own promising tomorrow. Our groundlings notion of the infinite has been momentarily shattered. Their flyways and wetlands and grand migrations make our own labors and ambitions seem vain and pretentious. We envy their grace, their song, their freedom, their certainty, their belonging. Possessed by their beauty our gestures can only emulate the fledgeling's hesitant leap into the unknown.