Every evening at half past seven, the gulls leave the Danube for the night. Before settling down, they circle above the city, waiting for each other so they can fly there together. They gather in the same places every day, as if guided by an invisible map and compass.
I stand at a street corner and look up at the sky. Then I glance down at the people around me. No one notices what’s happening above them. Everyone is looking down at their phones. No one seems to know that the birds don’t like going to sleep alone.
The flock circles high above the city until everyone has arrived. Slowly, the circle unravels, stretches into an inverted V, and disappears into the evening sky. Soon another flock gathers, and the whole ritual starts again. After the third flock leaves, the sky is empty.
I lower my gaze back to the street.
Nothing’s changed.
People are still looking at their phones.
Each on their own.
Toward the ground.
My thoughts drift back to the gulls.
I wonder how silly this looks from up there.
After all, the sky is the only boundary they know.