Early one balmy spring morning in the late 1990s, west of Austin, Texas, I was driving into town. It was the day before Easter, and I was out to search for books. The Easter Bunny left a basket of books amidst the chocolate rabbits and sweet jelly beans in our house each year, and we helped make this happen.

I turned onto busy Highway 290. I noticed large birds flying low overhead and craned my neck to get a better view. It was a great flock, wings slowly beating as the birds spiraled above and beyond the road. I then saw a second dark wave to the right, large numbers, cresting over the juniper covered hills in a winding ribbon. The way their wings flashed white in one direction and black in the other made them look like an Escher print, such fascinating patterns, and I knew they were American White Pelicans.

I was so moved, I pulled the car to the side of the road so that I could watch. Another flock wended its way over, low and magnificent with their big wings and heavy beaks. They were weaving above and past the highway, and the car was rocking as each heavy vehicle flew by. I was stuck in the middle of a paradox, between an industrial phenomenon and a natural phenomenon happening simultaneously. Fast mechanical vehicles around me and tremendous, slow wild birds overhead. Why wasn't everybody stopping for this?

The last band of pelicans rhythmically flocked north, gaining altitude as they spiraled for the migration they were undertaking. They faded from view and I drove into town, undone with wonder.