Day 3 was for the birds

We were learning the island, driving from one small town to an even smaller town. We’d visited the site where the bodies had washed up on the beach after the British bombed the Cap Arcona were buried.
As we turned into a country lane I thought the bush had strange flowers or puffs. They turned out to be a flock of birds.
“Stop,” I said.
My housemate slammed on her brakes.
“Look.”
As soon as she saw what was there, she reached for her camera. None of the birds seemed upset when we rolled down the window to take photos.
Routinely, 50 or so would take off, circle and then come back to settle in the bush or stop for a drink in the puddle below. Suddenly their normal tweeting took on a higher pitch and the birds buried themselves among the branches. A hawk swooped over them then flew away. The birds remerged, their numbers intact.