Holly J. Hughes

Uprising in the Skagit

February 2025

At first, just one or two dot the fallow winter fields so we follow three snow geese honking north, long necks pointing the way. We turn right down a gravel road, curve past a barn and there, beyond the falling-down fence, a sea of white bodies bobbing on muddy furrows. Our binoculars rise, though we can see from here the black tips of their wings, snow goose sighting confirmed. We lower our glasses, let each dot merge back into the white sea of muddy, delicate, feathered bodies where they are no longer individuals but a flock, moving in their mysterious flock way to that ancient flock beat. So when the red-tailed hawk swoops down there’s no discussion, no huddling and pondering, no polling, no debate, just the blessed swift instinctual response to danger: a cacophony of honking as they rise as one undulating body, a bubble blown by a hidden wind, rise like a cloud into a blue sky that a second before looked ordinary.  

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