Tonight, we set off for a carryout pizza run, and there he was, perched boldly on the fence, not 30 feet from my driveway. And once more, there I was again, no camera at hand. When we returned, he remained still, warily waiting to tease me with failure. Always a masochist for the attentions of a sadistic bird, I ran inside the house, and returned with the camera and car, hoping that the familiar disguise of a Jeep Wrangler would allow me to get close enough for a decent photo.
But he was gone again, nowhere to be found on a pass up and down the road. I moved slowly, scanning fence and sky for movement, meadowlarks and swallows happy to oblige, but no sign of the Scissor-Tail. I prepared myself for another date with the demon of disappointment.
I sat still some seconds longer, stunned by the moment, my heart beating madly, my breath coming short as I savored my victory and tasted my triumph. At last, with a lingering look in the direction he took, I moved on with my life, forever changed by crossing his.