Channel Sights

A loose line of black birds stands solid at the water's edge. The birds are tipped forward and hesitant, as if deciding against diving in. The gray metal skin of the channel seems impenetrable and implacable; still and unruffled as those birds. Are they crows? What are they doing? Seagulls meander amongst them like beggers asking for spare change; searching and shy, looking for a friendly face.
The sight of the poised is so odd as to make me think I am seeing a modern art installation. Maybe the work of a famous landscape artist or a local unknown. Along with the excitement of witnessing a rare piece of art, comes disbelief; yet the little black statues are still, unmoving. Are those crows?
Further down the shore, two more loose groups of statues dot the distance. That's a lot of work, a lot of statues! But, that's the thing about artists; they do crazy shit and can be extravagant, packing a ton of time into a small space or manically manufacturing black bird statues, to place at the water's edge, at low tide, for no good reason at all.
Finally, I see one of the birds move. The illusion of artistic innovation and excess is shattered. I am back in the real world, the world of nature, where grand canyons and endless artic white are common.
Somewhere on a white canvas, a small black dot of an Inuit hunter is heading home. Home is past the edge of the blank canvas. Somewhere in a gray day landscape, next to the slash of a channel, a black dot writer is also heading home. Thinking of dinner and warmth, he and the hunter, both part of a painting in progress. They and those implacable birds, with meandering seagulls, asking for change.