The other evening, when friends and I drifted in kayaks on the Connecticut River off Old Lyme in hopes of watching a dazzling migration of tree swallows, I stared impatiently at the horizon. Where were all the blankety-blank birds?

“Should be here any minute,” I announced, sounding like a car salesman offering a fabulous deal or a politician making a campaign promise.

Because I organized this outing and pledged that the spectacle of hundreds of thousands of swallows swirling in the heavens would be “a life-changing experience,” I had a lot invested in its success.

A few minutes later, a handful of cheeping birds flitted by and disappeared into tall grasses at Goose Island near Lord’s Cove.

“Here they come!” I exclaimed gleefully. But then — nothing.

In past years, swallows had shot by as if from a thousand confetti guns, so fast, thick and close that I raised my hands over my face for protection. Luckily, there were no kamikaze birds. Great swarms then performed an aerobatic maneuver called a murmuration — whirling psychedelically in unison before forming a tornadic vortex. Finally, as if sucked down by a giant vacuum, they spiraled to earth with a WHOOSH.

Such shows typically have gone on nightly from late August through September, but this year, record warmth likely has caused insects that the sparrows feed on to linger farther north, delaying the migration.

The other night, by squinting while peering skyward, we glimpsed a meager flock against the cloud cover.

Still, it was a glorious time to be on the water. The sky glowed with an iridescent sunset, fish jumped, egrets stalked the shoreline, osprey and terns dove.

“A beautiful night,” said my pal Tim Lambert, paddling next to me.

I almost replied with a comment that is Number 1 in a list of responses certain to throw cold water over any transcendent experience: “Yeah, but you should have been here last year.”

Instead, I bit my tongue and answered, “Yes, it is.”

Why spoil everything?

I gazed at the resplendent settings, adding, “You know, I can’t think of anywhere more glorious at this moment than this very spot.”

It was true. The Nature Conservancy has proclaimed the lower Connecticut River one of “The World’s Last Great Places.”

All too often, though, in unrealistic hopes of recapturing lightning in a bottle, we overlook the beatitude of the moment.

Or we whip out cellphones and record on video tableaus that can never be transferred to a digital screen.

Or we try to inject ourselves into the scene — never a good idea.

Best approach: no approach. Stay back, watch, listen, absorb, savor.

So, I’ll be back in a few weeks, when I hope more sparrows decide to wing their way south.

If you’d like to observe this natural phenomenon, the best cartop boat launch is at the end of Pilgrim Landing Road off Route 156, just north of the Baldwin Bridge. There’s a tiny parking lot that quickly fills up about an hour before sunset, but a friendly, enterprising resident will let you park on his property for $10. He also rents kayaks.

Once on the water, head north only a few hundred yards to Goose Island. You can either stay in the main river west of the island, or steer east up Lord Creek into Lord Cove, which is more protected.

Either way, you should see huge flocks of swallows right at sunset.

I promise, it will be a life-changing experience.