Two egrets fly above and beyond me in the pasture. Like buddies bumping shoulders, they fly so near to each other that their wings brush. I can hear the shush, feathers against feathers. Then the birds catch a rhythm, in such synchrony that their adjacent wings rotate as blades on a shared turbine, their bodies close like the two sides of the turbine’s hub held by an invisible pin.

The pasture and trees are very green, the egrets very white, the sky very blue.