Spiraling South

The familiar call is starting, resounding in my head. I coo, letting the world know I hear her urging. I am not alone in this. The flock responds in kind; a rustling of feathers and voices rise to the sky. It is a comfort to know soon we will take flight, head to our other home in the south where the warmth will once again penetrate our feathers and embrace our core. For only a few more days will we get to enjoy the ample supply of soybeans and corn these fields provide. Another coo surrounds me and I respond. It is not a warning, but a thanksgiving.

This is not my first trip, my first flight from the fields of western Ohio to the coast of Florida, not that us doves know that’s where we are. It’s an instinct within us, calling us home to the warmth of the south to mate, breed, start again, boost our numbers before the next harvest. Many of us won’t survive the journey. We are prey. If we are not vigilant, are unlucky, we fall victim. I’ve been lucky so far, and have seen two migration patterns. I know the odds of seeing another full cycle are against me, and I way that in my heart, knowing the dangers that lurk, the things I escaped the first trip. I let out a soft coo, airing my concerns to the world as a whole. There are many more like me. There are also the young ones, first timers. It is my job to try and guide them. I will sacrifice myself for them if it comes to that because they are the future of the flock. I am the past.

The days creep slowly, the night edging it’s way in earlier and earlier. We huddle in our nests, crowding the fields in the daylight. The machines have begun to churn, driving us upward to the sky, urging us to move on. It is not quite time, though, and so we circle, perch on telephone lines and wait. We coo, call out our prayers to the heavens. We are moments from taking flight now, and the calls become more, though there are new calls now as well. Foreign sounds that pierce our ears and hearts, call to us from the ground earlier than a dove would be on the wing. We know these sounds are dangerous, but they are also by our food, giving us little choice but to take a chance or move on. Either decision is dangerous. 

I choose to stay, bunker in my nest, only venture forth when I feel it is the safest to do so. Mostly, it is in the morning light, the moments when the world is just beginning to stir from its slumber. The dew on the grass is a stark contrast to the warmth of the day and it jolts me to life. I eat my fill before finding a place to perch for the day, watch for the dangers the world provides. The call is stronger now. I can feel it deep in my bones, thumping with every breath I take. “Go, go, go,” the steady rhythm urges me to utilize the wind, but I remain a moment longer, a day longer. There is safety in numbers and I must wait for the others. 

Then it happens. The chorus of cooing fills the air, the pounding of wings beating against the strong wind propels me forward, over the field picked clean by the machines. The field I once ate from. There is little cover, but that doesn’t bother me. Where we are going will be safe and warm, shelter us from the harsh winter that would wait for us here. I know there are a few who will remain. They have found feeders and housing, made a permanent and sustainable life here. I am not envious of them. Food is dependent on the people I strive to avoid. Many of them believe we are pests, something to be shooed onward. 

Small bangs ring out, causing many of the flock to drop, take cover in the field. Several drop for other reasons, small pellets entering their body, plucking them from the blue expanse that is supposed to be leading us toward safety. It is like this every year, the predators who call to us in foreign tones getting their kills. I am lucky for the moment and land in cover with the rest of the flock who made it. We will hunker here for a while, pray with soft coos there aren’t other beasts waiting to startle us into flight, into the echoing bangs that mean death. It’s as good of a place to rest as any. There is food and a small puddle we can get water from.

The heat of the afternoon sun bears down on us, once more urging us to take flight. It has been quiet for a while now, but that doesn’t always mean safety. These predators are smart, willing to wait for the moment we emerge. They are ready. The glinting light off their implements of death is the only warning we will get. More coos sound as the remainder of the flock beats the air into submission, continuing to follow the flyway we have taken for long before any of us can remember. This is how it is always done. This is how it will always be done. Once in the warmer climate we will count our losses but in the moment it is solely about survival. We try to zig and zag, dodge the hot pellets sent to bring us down. 

I am feeling good. My wings guide me, my head is forward and I’m doing what instinct tells me, but it is not enough. I feel them, the hot beads rip through my throat, my wing, and I’m falling. I thought I would make it. I was confident, yet this will be my last moment. The confidence was my downfall, my death. I feel it before my small brain even has time to recognize that I am dying. I continue to try and fight it. I’m trying to stand, trying to beat the air into submission once more while failing to gather the air I desperately need for life. Again I drop to the ground. I know I have to give up, but I can’t. To give up means death. It means I will fall victim to the predators I fought so hard to outwit.

I am not quite dead when the teeth gently pick me up. The dog will bring me back to its master without damaging any of my meat. I’ve heard the horror stories cooed about this from the survivors of these attacks, the ones who hide and witness the aftermath. My vision is fading, but I feel the call once more and try to flutter my wings against the white prison I am trapped in. The dog doesn’t drop me, just gently shakes, draining more of my life fluid from the wound in my neck. I know there will be no tomorrow. Finally, though, I feel the warmth promised at the end of travel as the world goes black.