Seize the Night

spaces between bungalows. The truck.
    It was passing on the next street parallel to this one, behind the small houses.
    Although I hadn't seen any details of the vehicle, I was sure Bobby had arrived. The pitch of the engine was similar to that of his Jeep, and it was speeding toward the commercial district of Dead Town, where we were supposed to meet.
    I headed in that direction as the roar of the truck rapidly diminished.
    The pain was gone from my calf, but the nerve continued to flutter, leaving my left leg weaker than my right. With the cramp threatening to recur, I didn't even try to run.
    From above came the shearing sound of wings, cutting the air into scimitar shapes. I looked up, ducking defensively, as a flock of birds made a low pass, in tight formation, and vanished into the night ahead.
    Their speed and the darkness prevented me from identifying their species. This might have been the mysterious crew that had roosted in the tree under which I'd placed my call to Bobby.
    When I reached the end of the block, the birds were flying in a circle over the intersection, as if marking time until I caught up with them.
    I counted ten or twelve, more than had kept watch over me from the Indian laurel.
    Their behavior was peculiar, but I didn't feel that they intended any harm.
    Even if I was wrong and they posed a danger to me, there was no way to avoid them. If I changed my route, they could easily follow.
    As they passed across the face of the descendent moon, traveling more slowly than before, I saw them clearly enough to identify them tentatively as nighthawks. Because they live by my schedule, I am familiar with this species, also known as night jars, which encompasses seventy varieties, including the whippoorwill.
    Nighthawks feed on insects—moths, flying ants, mosquitoes, beetles—and dine while on the wing. Snatching tidbits from the air, they jink this way and that, exhibiting a singular swooping-darting-twisting pattern of flight that, as much as anything, identifies them.
    The full moon provides them with the ideal circumstances for a banquet, because in its radiance, flying insects are more visible.
    Ordinarily, nighthawks are ceaselessly active in these conditions, their harsh churring calls cutting the air as they feast.
    The lunar lamp above, currently unobstructed by clouds, ensured good hunting, yet these birds were not inclined to take advantage of the ideal conditions. Acting counter to instinct, they squandered the moonlight, flying monotonously in a circle that was approximately forty feet in diameter, around and around over the intersection. For the most part, they proceeded in single file, though three pairs flew side by side, none feeding or issuing a single cry.
    I crossed the intersection and kept going.
    In the distance, the sound of the engine abruptly cut off. If it was Bobby's Jeep, he must have arrived at our rendezvous point.
    I was a third of the way into the subsequent block when the flock followed. They passed overhead at a higher altitude than previously but low enough to cause me to tuck my head down.
    When I arrived at another intersection, they had again formed a bird carousel, minus calliope, circling thirty feet overhead.
    Although any attempt to take a count would have resulted in more vertigo than waits in a bottle of tequila, I was sure the number of nighthawks had grown.
    Over the next two blocks, the size of the flock swelled until it wasn't necessary to take a count to verify the increase. By the time I reached the three-way intersection in which this street ended, at least a hundred birds were circling quietly above. For the most part, they were now grouped in pairs, and there were two layers to this flying feathered ring, one about five to ten feet higher than the other.
    I stopped, gazing up, transfixed.
    Thanks to the circus between my ears, I can seize upon the smallest disquieting observation and from it extrapolate a terror of cataclysmic proportions. Yet, though the birds unnerved me, I still didn't believe they were a threat.
    Their unnatural behavior was ominous without implying aggression.
    This aerial ballet, humdrum in its pattern yet inexpressibly graceful, conveyed a mood as clear and unmistakable as any ballet ever performed by dancers on a stage, as affecting as any piece of music ever meant to touch the heart and the mood here was sorrow. Sorrow so poignant that it pinched my breath and made me feel as though something more bitter than blood were