A few months ago, on a visit to Nonsuch Park with Reggie (my family’s Jack Russell), I had a profound encounter with a flock of Jackdaws. Emerging out of a wooded area, I came upon an empty field. I was quite mentally distracted by the events that had transpired over the previous week. At first, so caught up in these ruminations, I failed to register the vast assembly to my right. But as my ears pricked up, attention caught by a wall of fluttering voices, I was left to behold what seemed like hundreds of Jackdaws perched on a great big oak tree about 15 metres from me. I stood gawping at the sight for a good 5 minutes I think, till Reggie started whining for my attention; I assume after having enough of trying to figure out what the hell had frozen me in time. When I say the entire tree, I mean the entire tree. I can’t recall ever having seen anything like this, or at least not processing it in the way I had in that moment. On visits to Nonsuch park following this, I now carried with me an unwavering awareness of their presence. I would find myself gravitating to them on every visit, following their incessant chatter. If lucky enough I would catch glimpses of them in flight, murmurations of sorts, although not quite as magnificent as videos I have seen of starlings at sunset. Still, enough to fix me in the present moment. It bewilders me how I had never truly noticed them before. I actually mistook them for Starlings at first, mixing up various field recordings of their calls I had taken, mis-assigning them. I did a lot of research into when and where to view these murmurations in full bloom. I learnt these aerial displays happen mainly in autumn and winter (October to March), peaking around November to January (before the birds migrate to other parts of the world), and just before sunset or at sunrise. The best locations to view this all involved a fair drive, and with a lot of other commitments on my plate I hadn’t made the time or effort to attempt the journey. I decided to rent a camcorder from LCC, to give myself more reason to. The day after was a clear, sunny day, and at around 5pm spontaneity struck. I packed the camera and a Rode NTG and decided to keep my first attempt modest by visiting Nonsuch Park instead. I had never gone there for this sole reason, and familiar with the unpredictability of nature, I was prepared for a failed trip (I should note that a few weeks prior I visited in the middle of the day with a bunch of microphones on a mission to record them and failed miserably due to the weather turning). What occurred however was far beyond my expectations. Expecting less, yet receiving more is always a reminder that life’s best moments are often unanticipated. On returning home, I wrote a poetic recount of my experience. I also drafted together a rough montage of footage I captured alongside a score inspired by the Jackdaws’ movements (I’m still working on my camcorder skills).
Ill never forget that moment,
Stood underneath the leafless canopy,
Branches decorated with the silhouette of a thousand Jackdaws,
Their presence all encompassing,
Chorus deafening,
A shrill symphony of a world only known to me in this moment of unshakeable awe.Overcome by sound,
Everything falls away,
They dance in groups among the treetops,
Suites of them flitting from one tree to the next,
Their incessant chatter rain down on me from above,
Pervading the entire soundscape.
I am grateful for moments like these,
Those that free us of our worldly ties.An endlessness broken in a flash,
sweeping and thunderous movement through the sky,
I start running for the clearing,
Stumbling over upturned roots,
Tearing myself through bramble,
Catching glimpses through the trees,
My heart quickens at the thought of their retreat,
Aware that I move on their terms,
At the mercy of their whims.And then I see it,
The forest at my back,
The sky peeled before me,
It is one thing,
One form,
Even if only so to my sensible confines,
No longer a thousand.