Migratory

The cycle of migration is often one I don’t tend to find comfort in. Then again, most days I tend to find comfort in simply watching the sun hide behind the towers of grey, ever so close in the distance. And given how large our family is, it’s also safe to assume that we will always have difficulty doing so, that any greater journey will always hold strife. The same scenarios tend to play out in no particular order, but the entirety of the trek is largely unchanged. The only difference I could possibly bring to question is the mental state of our parents, as I observe them the most during these few day periods. Our usually planned destination is somewhere that the Blue is, where the careless nature of the Walking Ones allow for more meals dropped before our beaming eyes. We caw in excitement, imagine the bountiful amounts of fresh fruit laid before us, but are soon brought into the crushing reality by Father. Our Father has migrated far longer than us, seen things we have started to see only in the past few cycles. He is our only guide in surviving this planned exit, but he is far from the most reliable. Mother is not ready to leave, as she is too used to the setting sun up north. There is some fighting and reasoning that the sunset will be sooner, a breakdown regarding the nature of the world, and it finally ends with a peck to the eye reminding them of their place. We are forced to leave regardless, my Mother’s reluctance meagerly turning into acceptance of circumstance, and we soar upward into the first thermal draft we can find. The feeling of thermal heat hitting your feathers as you glide further into the sky is something I can say grants me unbridled joy, one of the only caveats to continuing forward. Finding these thermals will not be an issue, it’s keeping formation amongst the heavy winds that will be. The push of unplanned pressure on our bodies, the diverging of paths that seem to be in the wrong direction, the disappearance and death in the cold wind blowing against us. These are things that tend to drag us off-course, and although fatalities are uncommon, they are not unheard of in our many attempts. You are to ignore those, as they are too weak to survive the journey, and their attempt at having you stop was foiled. Their body is a memory, just like your experience with them. Even if you had attachment, love for this unit in your formation, you are to leave without any acknowledgement they were ever there. This starkness of behavior sends Mother into distress, quickly ignored by the rest as the wind continues to challenge us. At some point, we break through the wind into a warmer climate, but there’s no catharsis in doing so. The journey is not over, so we reconvene and continue flying in formation. There’s the singular stop for a meal, picking off the blackbars for scraps of bread and sweeter things. This is where the deaths happened one year, something looked similar to the berries near home and a brother went to feed from it. A red colored speeding death crushed him in place what I can surmise was five times, the screech from our Mother so unearthly we all assumed it was a predator nearby. The scrape against the black that was once a brother I knew was something I chose not to recognize, fighting against the emotions Father has claimed to have turned off. I ignored memories of hatching with them and returned to the remainder of the flock, our journey continuing without mentioning the trauma that was formed. There is no sleep until we reach the planned destination, the dark bringing about a cold that hangs in the air rather than blows. This portion is silent for too many moments, too many thoughts going by that make you think about if we are even to reach the end. This end that you have heard so much about, had made plans to finally reach when this was all over, the fruit you’d finally taste the juice of dripping down your beak. The only words spoken are to the other side of the formation, a simple “you’re lagging behind” and the response of flying closer to the family. Only orders, no conversation. We stay behind, we attempt to discuss anything, it throws our plans off-course. That is the only thing Father chooses to acknowledge other than his plan for the end, his idea of safety from the cold. And as we near what we believe is the Blue, the sun beating down on us in a way that’s intoxicating, we land near the maize of a Walking One’s nest. We have made it according to Father, this will be our location until it is time to return. There is no disappointment at this point, because I among many of us realize the expectation is always greater than the reality. The dream of the Blue was the motivator, not the end plan that would fill us with euphoria. Mother, in a daze almost, begins making her new nest far away from the noise-filled red building in the field. Father begins searching for food again, not saying a single thing as he tries to fly off stoically. The rest are left to scout the surrounding area for any danger to our group, and that it’s safe to stay for a spell. As I do this current time, I think over all the other times we’ve landed in a similar location. Similar pitfalls and problems that are just barely enough to peeve our Father, but have our Mother relent that it’s not her choice in the matter. I don’t theorize on the nature of Father’s choices, yet the idea hangs over me that this is as warm as he’s used to. Contemplating my Father’s untold childhood, I am called for dinner by another brother who, given his performance during this one, will die in the next cycle. I tell them in a hushed tone I will be there with them soon, but instead watch the sun slowly dissipate over the green hills beyond the maize. This is where, at the end of every migration, I finally feel some kind of catharsis. And it is the only time during these next few months I ever will.