Routine

I do not have the reason why we do it. All I know is that we always have. The day the frost nips under our plumes and bites through the leather of our feet is the day it begins. As if our brains are one instinctual entity, we take flight together, our wings spread regally and our breasts, soon to be raw from the constant wind, exposed to the crisp Ontario air of November. 

We will not stop until we get there. I do not know the way, but I know when we arrive. This year, the first frost bit as the sun rose, and we were off. There was not an announcement; there never is. In unison we took wing, ascending from the interlocking puzzle of pine-needled canopy and revealing ourselves as a grey and black cloud of shimmering feathers. 

It is never until several hours have passed that we obtain the true rhythm of flight. At first, our large flock is disorganized, a muddled crowd of fluttering feathered wings pumping through the air like an off-beat pulse. I imagine from the ground we appear as a pile of black pepper haphazardly spilled across a table.

But slowly, eventually, we surrender to the peacefully familiar and mindless rhythm of migratory flight. Our flock, no longer tangled and chaotic, becomes one being. We are one life form, an organized system that reacts simultaneously to the ebbs and flows of the ever-coursing wind. 

Like blood through a body we circulate within our flock. I always begin the journey in the center of the group; however, I never stay there for long. Several times a day, we shift our transformation, rotating the subgroups of the fliers in the front, middle, and rear. There is no announcement for this shift, either. It is automatic, almost mechanical, and definitely expected. 

We fly without ceasing from daybreak to dusk. When twilight falls, and our sooty color blends in with the greying sky, we descend. It is the most relieving feeling, knowing rest is near and feeling the air thicken under my wings. Sometimes it is dangerous, though, not knowing what predators lie in the unfamiliar grounds. One time, several years ago, a pair of ruthless falcons raided our throng while we slept dotted throughout the thin branches of a cluster of birch trees. They have a taste for barn swallows, yet we stand no match to them. After that night, our flock was thinned down to three-quarters. We never rest in birch trees anymore; our ebony feathers contrast too noticeably. 

Every day it gets warmer as we chase the heat towards the south. I know we are halfway to the destination when even the nights are balmy. I know we are nearly arrived when we trade northern pines for palms. That is how it is supposed to be, anyways. 

The past few years have been different. They have exposed us to elements that suggest Nature is out of routine. There have been unexpected fires and smokey skies. There has been frost even in the South. Our usual coastline flight path has seemingly been sunken underwater. Some weeks have been freezing, with others abnormally hot. The unusuality seems only to be getting worse. The climate seems to be, somehow, changing. 

I fear one coming year there will be no first frost. I fear we will not even know when to take flight.

This year especially, I have been afraid. Afraid that Nature’s recent anger would endanger us. A flock of small swallows is powerless over Nature’s fires of rage or its deepening waters. Our very migration depends on Nature’s calmness. We depend on Nature’s routine.

And my fear was not misplaced. 

On the last night of the migration, Nature displayed her new and unparalleled fury. We were nestled between palm fronds. My beak was tucked tightly underneath my wing, my thin claws gripped around the frond stem, holding my resting body steady as the tree swayed in the oceanic breeze. I awoke unexpectedly. Inherently, I knew something was wrong. My instinct told me, rather yelled at me, that I needed to leave. My heart pounded forcefully against the inside of my downy breast.

Other members of the flock were awaking, too. One by one they took flight anxiously from the palms. All synchroneity was evaporating. 

Salty water sprayed my frond and splashed across my beak, startling me off my perch. How unusual that it would be raining saltwater, my instinct cried. 

But it was not rain. Now, from my hovering vantage point, I could see the view that the dim moonlight revealed against the dark, coastal horizon. 

A wave, taller than the tallest pine tree in Ontario, was advancing ominously towards the shore. 

In that moment I knew I would die if I stayed. Every tiny capillary and every miniscule follicle of my body was inherently scorching with red-hot warnings of mortal danger. 

I took off in the opposite direction, several other panicking swallows flying parallel to me, others flying beneath me, all while sprays of salty mist continued to threateningly dampen my tailfeathers. 

But soon it was apparent that we could not fly faster than the wave. Terrified screeches were reverberating against the black night, begging Nature to cease her anger. But alas, she could not hear. 

The wave engulfed several swallows that were flying beneath me. My feet and leg-feathers were drenched as I narrowly missed the top of the watery crest. I flew higher yet, the air thinning as my wings flapped faster through it, trying desperately to keep my body suspended in safety. 

Against the moonlight I noticed a glint of ebony feathers to the west. I flew as quickly as I could towards the other swallows, and in fear we continued inland. 

The wave seemed to follow us westward for miles. Our flock, reduced to a quarter of its original size, was gradually finding its way back together, although the harmonic unison that once guided our throng was no longer tangible. Fear and uncertainty now pulsated through the air with the beating of our wings. 

Finally, the wave seemed to dissipate from beneath us, melting backwards towards the ocean, carrying the unseen, waterlogged, carcasses of our companions. We turned south just before dusk. 

That night we settled in a cluster of southern oaks, dangling moss acting as a curtain shielding us from the trepidation of the previous night. For the first time since the previous day, my intuition allowed my body to relax. I tucked my beak under my wing and my heartbeat slowed. 

I do not have the reason why Nature has become so hostile, so ever-changing and unpredictable. All I know is that if she does not calm down, if she does not stop changing, our routine is destined to fail. Our unity, our entire species, is destined to wash away with the waves.