Ground Speed

 

The shadow of the bird flying overhead seems to travel a great deal faster than the bird itself, for it slips over shrubs, rocks and trees as if they weren’t even there.

 

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There’s something deliciously unfair about a shadow’s swagger. The bird works for every inch of altitude—wingbeats, micro‑corrections, the whole ballet of lift and drag—while its shadow just… cheats. It sprints across the ground like a rumor, slipping over boulders, shrubs, fences, and the entire topography as if the world were ironed flat.

A shadow has no friction, no altitude to lose, no branches to dodge. It’s pure geometry in motion: the bird moves through air, but the shadow moves through projection. Change the angle of the sun by a hair and the shadow leaps ahead like it’s late for an appointment. In a sense, the shadow’s “ground speed” is the speed of the bird multiplied by the distance to the ground and the angle of the light—an equation that lets the shadow break all the rules the bird must obey.

And yet, there’s a poetic twist you’d appreciate: the shadow may outrun the bird, but it can never leave it. It’s tethered, a loyal silhouette dragged along by a creature that has no idea it’s being followed.