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On most summer days, fog blankets the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco. Accompanied by wind and heavy with droplets, it can chill to the bone anyone foolish enough to walk on Ocean Beach without a thick coat and a winter hat. This was not one of those days. Hanging low in the sky, the sun cast everything it touched in an amber light. Elongated shadows mirrored the movements of their originators. The surf furled and unfurled, reaching for the shoes and pant-cuffs of passers-by who evaded a potentially soggy walk home with a quick side step. Their four-legged companions cared nothing for remaining dry and dignified.

Down the shore, near dunes draped in drought-resistant flora, a matrix of white figures stood at attention. Had someone collected sand dollars and propped them up in the sand like tombstones? What were the darker, larger figures that stood next to them? Craning my neck slightly, I squinted. Then I walked – slowly – thinking that one more step would satisfy my curiosity and allow me to continue the brisk walk that I had planned. A quick glance down to avoid tripping over an unseen obstacle instead revealed knitted patterns of tracks stamped into the sand. Bigger footprints mingled with millions of small ones, creating an expansive landscape of ridges and shadows in miniature.

What had appeared to be orderly and inanimate at a distance transformed into a vibrant and active scene as my pace slowed to a crawl. I was a cat sneaking up on its prey, legs stopping mid-stride if it sensed that it may have been detected. I spent the next fifteen minutes observing the little shore birds that I had stumbled upon, staying motionless hoping they'd come closer. I dismissed the urge to run through the flock and scatter the birds in a torrent of wings and feathers.

Taken as a whole, the flock seemed to flow like water from one place to another. It was as though the birds were connected by an invisible network of Slinkies. If one took the lead and moved, its neighbors were either pushed or pulled into maintaining their relative positions. When a larger bird decided to land in their midst, it resulted in an avian ripple effect: concentric circles of little birds radiating from the big bird. While the birds’ collective movement inspires awe, each individual’s movement makes me laugh. Watching their legs press up and down faster than a sewing machine needle invokes memories of watching the Road Runner blaze past Wile E. Coyote on Saturday mornings.

My reward for waiting patiently for them to get closer was hearing their voices. The sound of the surf drowns out their incessant chirping unless you are close enough to feel like you are eavesdropping on a private conversation in a crowded restaurant. Satisfied, I left and looked forward to our next encounter.