Not being a parachutist, I notice the incoming bird with splayed feet and the awkward wings of a teenager. Others look up, grounded as we are, to benches and grass and sand. Mothers pushing children on arcing swings. The fisherman casting bait through parabolas into saltwater. Even the dog that marked the pole.
Collectively we stop and hold our breaths against the unpredictable headwind.
Somehow, the young pelican makes a daylight landing atop the elevated street light. It is not perfect, but it is enough.
We exhale and resume our terrestrial activities.
He preens himself and watches the beings beneath.