My fall lambing is done! Consisting of exactly two ewes, this part of my shepherding “program” is the most fun. These two ewes will be able to provide milk for us during the winter, which is a wonderful thing. But, perhaps just as wonderful, unlike spring lambing, when we are overwhelmed by babies, now we get to play and snuggle with the new flock members individually, basking in their adorable-ness because we aren’t working around the clock to invite the next round of babies into the world.
September has also been uncharacteristically cool and rainy. No one can believe the grass is still green — almost anyone you ask, young or old, says they’ve never seen that in their lifetime. I’ve been keeping the two moms and their babies in the barn at night, and rather than walking them back and forth to the pasture every day, I let them out to graze in the yard, standing close by to herd them away from the garden or the road. The moms calmly munch clover and dandelions, the babies tumble over and on top of each other, clambering up for a sip of milk and then running away, testing the strength of their ever-lengthening legs.
I’ve been trying not to stare at my phone while I do this. I am old enough to remember boredom fondly, but too young to let myself enjoy it regularly. I could be answering an email while I stand in the yard with the sheep or reading an article or mindlessly scrolling because I forgot why I even pulled my phone from my pocket.
Instead, I try to watch the sheep, observing which plants the ewes snack on first, noticing the subtle cues the lambs use to engage each other in play. I watch the sky, listen to the trees, sniff the odd mix of summer, spring and autumn smells caught and carried by the wind. If I had aspirations to be an internet guru, I could probably market this as sheep meditation, but for now, I’m content to enjoy it all by myself.
Yesterday, while I was standing with the sheep, the black birds started flocking up to begin their journey south. I heard them before I saw them; their rusty, barn-door squawks amplified by their thousand rustling wings. They were coming from all directions, landing in trees, then fluttering up, then landing again in seamless swirls and circles.
After a few minutes, when the whole group had apparently gathered, they all lifted their wings together, pulling themselves into the sky. This formation is called a “murmuration”— a wild, undulating, but oddly cohesive living sculpture. The flock moved through the sky, twisting and turning, breaking into two separate groups, then rejoining, soaring over my head and then beyond until they reached the horizon line and faded from view.
Even scientists who study murmurations extensively can’t pinpoint exactly why or how they work. Their best guess is that a murmuration has no leader and no plan, and that the murmuration is formed by individual birds observing what the birds around them are doing, then responding to that movement with a movement of their own. Consequently, every bird is simultaneously initiating and responding at the same time as every other bird. The swirling aerial ballet is a collaboration, a co-creation between every member of the flock.
Watching the birds over my head suddenly reminded me of scrolling on my phone. Flashing through videos and pictures, short comments and long essays, thousands upon thousands of individual humans responding to the news, art, the vagaries of modern parenting or just posting about what they had for breakfast, which, taken all together, looks a lot like the riotous acrobatics of a murmuration.
For now, I’m going to keep looking up to the sky instead of down at my phone when I’m out with the sheep, but there is something beautiful about carrying a murmuration in my pocket. Since today happens to be the fall equinox, I’ll add that finding balance between looking up and looking is a work-in-progress, but that is fodder for another column!
