Mankind can only imagine, and fail. Because for all our imagination, we are a species totally lacking in bird sense. And, (even if I say so, strictly in passing), a species utterly incapable of piloting away from the traps that we, in our so-called evolution, have set for ourself -- development, consumerism and greed.
But then, I digress. This isn't about man, anyway.
What does it mean, to be a bird of the water? What does it mean, to be able to lord it over another realm that is not exactly terrestrial, to be able to dive and scythe through the water, with a fluidity and grace akin to someone born to it?
If I could talk in the language of the birds, and had to pose these questions to any one of them, it would have to be to the Snakebird. For this is one bird that rules both of its realms with supreme elan -- a powerful flier capable of really long hauls (unlike Cormorants, Snakebirds don't really "colonise" a particular lake / pond, and are relatively footloose), it can also prowl the waters with the silent menace (and relative invisibility) of a submarine.
All that is visible (that too, if you have a really keen eye) is that slender neck, gliding through the water snake-like, as the bird darts this way and that -- reading the scripts of bubbles and fish-tails on the surface of the water, and readying for another dive.
And then, it will disappear. Most often than not, to come up with a smallish fish -- already impaled and half-dead, in its bill. Then, with the nonchalance of a master conjurer, that snake-like neck comes into play again, as the fish is tossed up, to be gobbled down head first.
Seen here as it is about to take off -- in a welter of water drops -- the Snakebird is a bird neither of water, nor of air; and also, Janus-like, for this one captured instance, one of both.
There are two stories being told here; the immensity of that wingspread can only mean a mastery of the skies. And, of what happens below the waters, we can (again with the limited grasp and imagination of our kind) make a guess.
With that powerful neck cutting through the murky depths like a boat's prow, propelled (among other things) by the working of that tail -- what chance does a fish stand?
What does it mean, to be a bird of the water? What does it mean, to be able to lord it over another realm that is not exactly terrestrial, to be able to dive and scythe through the water, with a fluidity and grace akin to someone born to it?
If I could talk in the language of the birds, and had to pose these questions to any one of them, it would have to be to the Snakebird. For this is one bird that rules both of its realms with supreme elan -- a powerful flier capable of really long hauls (unlike Cormorants, Snakebirds don't really "colonise" a particular lake / pond, and are relatively footloose), it can also prowl the waters with the silent menace (and relative invisibility) of a submarine.
All that is visible (that too, if you have a really keen eye) is that slender neck, gliding through the water snake-like, as the bird darts this way and that -- reading the scripts of bubbles and fish-tails on the surface of the water, and readying for another dive.
And then, it will disappear. Most often than not, to come up with a smallish fish -- already impaled and half-dead, in its bill. Then, with the nonchalance of a master conjurer, that snake-like neck comes into play again, as the fish is tossed up, to be gobbled down head first.
Seen here as it is about to take off -- in a welter of water drops -- the Snakebird is a bird neither of water, nor of air; and also, Janus-like, for this one captured instance, one of both.
There are two stories being told here; the immensity of that wingspread can only mean a mastery of the skies. And, of what happens below the waters, we can (again with the limited grasp and imagination of our kind) make a guess.
With that powerful neck cutting through the murky depths like a boat's prow, propelled (among other things) by the working of that tail -- what chance does a fish stand?
No comments:
Post a Comment