Cassias Finch's freedom

“You know,” said the old blue jay sharing the perch with young Cassias Finch, “they envy us our freedom.” 

“Really?” Young Cassias Finch stopped scanning for his next spot to forage and looked at the old blue jay sharing his perch.  

“Yes, they have a saying—free as a bird—but they have no idea the strength it takes to fly.” The young finch regarded the old blue jay. He was still regal in the splendid deep blue of his species that Cassias had always admired. However, sitting so close he could see that there was a weariness to him: his breast feathers were warn down, his wings a little thin, in a few broken places he’d lost that royal blue completely. Cassias could see the old blue jay had weathered many seasons and was tired. 

Finch looked up and scanned the expanse of clear autumn sky. Not a single cloud. The air had changed from the languid warmth of summer to this thin, bright coolness. Something he could not name but could feel was calling him towards the horizon. The leaves, the seeds, the taste of the rain; everything was subtly different.  

Young Cassias looked at the old bird and said, “They can’t possible believe that, that we are free.”  

Cassias Finch again turned his attention to the sky. A shadow soared high above them, a shiver ran through his small body. He looked at the warm little cottage tucked cozily in the wooded landscape. Its roof covered in pine needles, smoke from its chimney seasoning the cool air. Cassias looked again towards the sky, several of the others were already about their migration. 

Last year’s was his first; two of his nest mates never made it. A few days into the great adventure they were sucked into the engine of a small plane. Along the way several others were lost to hawks and owls. Some simply dropped from exhaustion. He remembered twittering on with his nest mates about this great migration south to a promising land they had yet to see. Finch now understood why the old birds had focused with an anxious obsession, preparing through the end of summer into early fall. These seasoned migrators were intent on the task, flitting to and from branch to feeder to ground and back. Calculating constantly: eat enough to make it through the journey but not so much that you be burdened with unnecessary weight. Having endured his first complete migration Finch saw that life for them was a constant precarious balancing act. They all had a hint of the same weariness as old blue jay. The older birds had gathered the younger ones at the outset of their first flight to impart their own wise saying, passed down from generation to generation: Take heart young ones, there is not a branch in the sky nor a briar in the sea. Finch could still feel the weight in his wings, scanning desperate for rest with no safe landing insight. 

Finch lifted and spread his wings, he stretched and flapped, then settled again, folding them back against his body. They were now so well rested, the heaviness of that first journey just a distant memory. But still a memory, there deep in his young bones. Panic began to creep in, he remembered the days of endless blue above and below, such a depth of uncertainty. He had felt blind, endlessly following something he could not see. He could take some moments on a calm day to soar and rest, reclaim some strength. Then there were days with no rest at all. Those days were full of only constant exertion and the doubt that this journey would ever end. 

Old blue jay took a long look at Finch. With a knowing compassion, he said, “Yes, they have no idea.” 

They sat in silence on the branch of the tree, watching the warm glow of the human’s dwelling. Brightly colored leaves floated to the ground. A squirrel paused her constant gathering to look at them and then continued to bury her stash of acorns. A crisp wind blew around them. It was colder today then yesterday, this tree was almost bare. There was not much time left. Finch could still feel the warmth of his nest, its safety and protection also lived as a memory deep in his bones. 

A large, marmalade-colored cat watched the two birds from inside the house. A bright red cardinal ate from the feeder. A hawk’s cry pierced the silence. Both bird froze.  

Old blue jay regained a bit of composure and said, “Never you mind now, no hawk will dive so close to the house.” He paused before continuing, again regarding the young bird. He noticed how fresh and full was his plumage, a brilliant patterning of colors, still soft with down, young, vibrant, alive. He felt for the years and journeys ahead. “You know young one, I haven’t migrated in years. I don’t envy you the journey, though spring and summer twice in one year is lovely.”

“You don’t migrate? You stay, all winter? What is it like?” 

“It’s cold, barren, dark. But the humans put out food for us.” 

“Where do you stay?” 

“There yonder in the rhododendrons, they keep their leaves all year. Or see those great pines? They too offer a good shelter.” 

They sat in silence again. Finch had never imagined such a thing, to not migrate. To stay here, and brave the winter.  

A passing flock of geese honked as they flew in formation overhead. Again the cry of the hawk circling the meadow nearby. Finch looked at the dense growth of the large rhododendron’s twisted branches. It did appear quite safe. 

“How cold?”

“Oh very, and too dark.” Old blue jay listened to the constant sounds of the woods that surrounded them. “And eerily silent. But it does not last as long as you might imagine and always we have moments of heavenly warm winter sun. The food is plentiful, thanks to the humans. There is a predictability that makes it possible to endure. The humans believe you need some glimmer of hope to keep going, but we know that is not true. Long past any end in sight on that long journey south, it is not hope that keeps you going, but simply some drive to survive. The same is true for enduring the winter.”

“I may choose stay this year,” said young Cassius Finch.

“You’d be welcome, a pioneer, the first of your kind,” the old blue jay said.  

Finch felt, for the first time, free.