"Kreee-ki-ki-ki-ki-ki-ki!" times ten thousand. Tiny and pudgy, the Dovekies swoop en masse down the slope, wheel around the bay and soar over our heads, then again over the water, and back to the rocks. We are on a steep slope of granite boulders, and the female Dovekies are on eggs deep underneath in the crevices, safe from foxes and gulls. Occasionally they call from deep under us. The males get settled picturesquely on the boulders, not 30 feet away, then a Glaucous Gull soars over the cliffside, and ten thousand birds are noisily on the wing again. These gulls can take an adult Dovekie on the wing, and devour it whole.

Motor drives fire all about me. I get caught up in the frenzy, and shoot a good two rolls of tight portraits of before the thought occurs to me—why. Mostly I am enjoying being so close to the birds, but as far as any professional purpose, nothing could be more obscure than this little black and white arctic bird. The soaring birds beneath me, downslope, now that is compelling. I station myself in their flight path. I feel like I am in the middle of the flock as they practically part around me. So for two hours that’s what I do—work to get a landscape that has the feeling of this place. I organize the frame, then wait for the next rush of birds. They are as regular as a train schedule.

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