Autumn Flocks

They begin to gather under the fluorescent lights, one, two, three, then more, six, seven and the noise begins to grow, from whisper to low murmur, mounting, growing, chatterchatterchatter and still it grows, punctuated by an occasional squawk or titter.

Outside, just above the trees, so low you could almost touch them, the V-shape geese form and reform, a rush hour traffic jam ready to dive into Isbell's Pond for the evening. A thousand small song birds make a chittering funnel-cloud exit from the maple trees on Elm Street and move off over the park.

The worn door opens and the guys shuffle in, a protective, tentative group on the opposite side of the room. For an eternal moment there is no sound but feet on cool tile. Only the electric clock speaks, tick, tick, tick. Calculating stares are exchanged, shy smiles, opponents and allies sized up in a sweep-second-hand survey. Then it begins again. Whisper, murmur, chatter, chatterchatterchatter, with a deeper, slower accompaniment punctuated by an occasional hoot or laugh.

Outside, the wind gusts, and a whirl of leaves migrates from the Baptist Church's front yard to Main Street.

"Summer Vacation is Over!", blares the hand-painted banner on the side wall. "Youth Group Starts Again Tonight! All Are Welcome!"