The loft door opened

An original literary non-fiction-style account of watching a neighbour open a pigeon loft in a garden.

The loft had looked almost silent from the kitchen. Nearer the door, I could hear movement packed into the timber: a soft scrape, a sudden flutter, another scrape above it. My neighbour stood beside the entrance with his hand on the catch. He waited until I had stepped back, then opened the door.

For a moment, nothing emerged. A pale head appeared, withdrew and appeared again. Then wings filled the opening. The birds did not leave as a neat group. They spilled into different heights, crossed one another and gathered above the roof in a turning shape which kept altering its edge. The garden seemed briefly too small for the amount of movement it had contained.

My neighbour watched with his head tilted. His hands were still. I had seen those hands repairing the fence, carrying sacks and lifting the heavy lid from a water butt. Now they rested against the sides of his coat while his eyes followed something I could not keep separate from the rest.

The birds passed over us once more. A flash of pale wings broke from the group and disappeared behind the house. I turned to ask whether he had noticed it. He was already looking that way. The loft stood open beside us, an ordinary wooden space made unexpectedly large by what had left it.

How does the writer use language to convey the release of the birds and the neighbour's attention?