YOU WILL NEVER KNOW THE NAME OF THESE BIRDS

But as they settle across the pond, you begin to wish the motorway, and its constant hum, were not so close, so you could hear these dusk feeders, as they circle, then land, on this mirror-skin of water. You watch closely, trying to imagine what sound the shadow of feather on water makes, when something spooks these birds, and they take flight, in a clatter of soft glass, breaking, then falling back into place.