The Ceder Waxwings swarmed the backyard this afternoon. At least a thousand of them. I stood and moved to the window to watch them feed and the radio went static and switched to French like it always does in the afternoon, when some sort of ghost plays games with the frequencies. I stood and watched the birds sweep through the trees like a swarm of God-sent locusts, picking them clean of last year's crop.
And then they were gone, an exodus of beating heat, flying through winter sky like a single body. They dropped and climbed away at will, at random, with the frequency of my radio on the backs of their wings.