My shutter sense was tingling before the sun even bothered to climb out of bed. Clearly, the universe was whispering: “Go get your frame fix.”
Trish peeked into my office.
“Where we off to?”
“Sachuest.”
“What are you going to shoot this morning?”
I shrugged like a man about to bluff his way through a card game.
“I don’t know. But I’ll know when I see it.”
That’s always the plan. The drive to Sachuest Point National Wildlife Refuge is my time to scheme. I take note of cloud cover, sun position, wind direction, and then make my wish list—cedar waxwing, yellow warbler, tree swallow. With the soft, diffused light, the shadows couldn’t play their usual tricks on me.
Along the shore, I spotted a double-crested cormorant standing on a rock in the morning sun like he was about to deliver the Gettysburg Address. His breeding crown was gone—seasonally appropriate, like packing away your tuxedo after prom. But the angle was perfect. His bluish eyes burned through the mist, sharp as gemstones. Normally, they’re either diving, fishing, or drying feathers like laundry on the line. Not this guy. He stood his ground like Custer—only, mercifully, without the tragic ending.
Then I rounded the corner.
And the swallows appeared.
At first, a handful zipped past like rogue sparks. Then more. Then—chaos. Thousands erupted into the sky, twisting and folding the air like a living murmuration of electricity.
Tree Swallows have this uncanny ritual before migration: they gather in massive flocks, sometimes numbering in the hundreds of thousands, to feed, roost, and quite possibly share directions to Florida. These synchronized swarms aren’t just for show—they provide safety from predators, fuel up the flock on flying insects, and help the birds organize before the long southern journey. It’s like a rehearsal dinner for migration, only louder and with more wingbeats.
A jogger stopped beside me, eyebrows raised.
“What’s happening?” Natalie asked.
“Tree swallows,” I whispered.
She tilted her head, unconvinced—until the sky exploded. Her jaw practically relocated to her sneakers.
Lesson recalled: never leave fish to find fish. Back in my fishing charter days, I watched captains abandon a hot bite chasing the illusion of bigger, better catches. Spoiler: there never are. Stick with the action.
So I stayed. And because I stayed, I noticed the flocks drifting steadily seaward. I followed their trail to Price Neck Overlook.
And there it was—the payoff.
The entire bank glittered with swallows, perched like living jewels, catching morning light and scattering it back into the world. A chorus of wings, a flash of blue, a storm both chaotic and impossibly ordered.
That sight—equal parts preparation and dumb luck—burned itself into memory.
When I finally walked back through the door, Trish asked,
“See anything?”
I just smiled.
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