There was a large flock of tiny little birds living in the neighborhood and every year when the elderberries neared ripening stage, these little birds would begin scoping out my tree. A few would taste a berry or two and the others would watch from nearby phone lines, waiting for the taster’s review of the fruit.

Finally they would decide the berries were ready and they’d all begin swooping around in the sky above the tree, at last coming down as though of a single mind to clean that tree completely of fruit.

They made a grand racket with their chirping and flitting and singing, jumping from branch to branch. Some would fly almost straight up, do a little pirouette as though for sheer joy and then come back down to rejoin the feast. This would go on for at least an hour.

At last, the entire flock would suddenly rise into the air, do some figure-eights all in unison and then go streaking through the sky to land in a giant oak about a half block away. There they spent another hour or so debating over whether the berries were as good this year as last, bragging about who ate the most and who sang the loudest. Then they’d take off for parts unknown.

Oh, they came back a little later. After all, they did live in the area. But this annual adventure seemed to be as important to them as it was to me. I purely enjoyed their antics and never knew which day the little birds would come to have their elderberry party.