Mallards at Sundown

Yet another in a long succession of clear, beautiful days is drawing to a close. Above freezing most of the day. Staring out the window as twilight approaches, I open the book I have here with me in the den, The Limitsof Analysis by Stanley Rosen.  Page twelve.

"One cannot make sense of Platonism or Kantianism without giving an elaborate account of the functions of the intellect. This account will of course differ sharply in the two cases. [Of course] In the first case, we require a description of the intuition of the formal structure, whereas in the second, we need what Kant called as account of the "transcendental ego," that is, of the principles of subjective activity or construction which are invariant from one individual intellect to the next."

Rosen adds:

"In both cases, then, we must present an account of the subject as well as the object (or the thinker as well as the thought content.)"

But this isn't true. Not at all. When we have an intuition of beauty, for example, there is no need to describe the "formal structure" of that intuition, or what it feels like to the individual who experiences it. Anyone who has the slightest sensitivity to beauty will know what it involves, generally speaking. The challenge lies in describing the specific experience that has elicited such a feeling, and explaining what the attributes and effects are that warrant our enthusiasm and affection for it. The analysis doesn't focus on the psychology of the subject, but the character of the experience itself.

For example, when the sun sets, as it's doing now, mallards often fly back and forth across the sky in several seemingly random direction, just above the treetops, grouped in sevens and twelves and nines, and they're traveling fast. Who knows where they're going, why they're flying in opposite directions, or what affinities underlie their choice of traveling companions. Maybe they're headed for the big pond by the Honeywell plant on Winnetka Avenue. Maybe they're headed for the open water on that section of Bassett Creek that winds through the golf course, or the very small pond, surrounded by willow shrubs, just across the road from the maintenance shed on Wirth Parkway.

It doesn't matter. What's beautiful is the evening sky, interrupted from time to time by the startling appearance of these ducks, which appear much whiter than usual as they rocket past, catching the last rays of the setting sun.

I just now saw eleven of them moving north, flapping wildly. Did the mallard in the lead suddenly lift off, gripped by the desire to visit the Coon Rapids Dam, with his mate, off-spring, and various hangers-on scurrying behind?  Or was there some kind of discussion beforehand?

In any case, the zeal of these birds is remarkable, and their inexplicable movements adds both drama and mystery to the sunset hour. I'm tempted to call their presence sublime. In comparison, the flocks of crows that drift dilatorily across the neighborhood before dawn, cawing at random and almost always heading west, come across as genial slackers.