Flight

I was born to fly. 

At least, that’s what they told me. 

I grew up falling asleep every night hearing stories of the great migration of our species, a perilous but glorious coming-of-age journey halfway across the globe, from the very top of North America to the western jungles of Brazil. From the moment I grew out my feathers, I’ve been longing for the day I’d join my friends and family on the most fantastic flight a black swift can experience, crossing the twistiest rivers and valleys, piercing through the thickest forests and jungles, scaling the tallest mountains and treetops. I’d daydream myself to sleep on those nights, imagining what it would be like to feel the warm sun on my face… 

“You’re not migrating this week,” my father squawks, neck feathers puffed aggressively. “You’re too young!” 

“But I’m not! I’m a fully grown swift! And one of the best flyers in our family!” I match his ruffled appearance with my own, big and poofy and intimidating. 

“We agree that you’re very talented, my child.” My mother is calmer than my father, but expresses the same dismissal. “But you’re not ready. Flying fast is half the battle. Recognizing the route is the other half.” 

“You just don’t think I can do it!” I click my beak, turn, and fly away, leaving my parents alone in our nest. I couldn’t stand to stay in that heap of twigs and moss for another second. As my home disappears behind me, I feel the heat of tears beneath my eyes. My heart hammers in my tiny ribcage. Guilt and shame floods my gut. I say they don’t, but I know my parents believe in me. If there’s anyone in the world who believes in me, it’s them.

I still remember the first time I ever took flight. I was standing on the edge of the nest on the precipice of the waterfall, small patches of me still bare and unfeathered, peering out at the world. My father’s voice crowed behind me, instilling me with confidence. “Don’t worry. It will be easy, you’re a natural.” 

He was right. I impressed all the elders in our family when they saw me soar. They came to my parents, who were full of pride and smiles, and they told them, “Your kid has a special talent. I have never seen such a beautiful young bird fly so far, so fast.” 

Despite being the runt of our family and much smaller than average, I learned quickly. Soon, I became the smoothest flier in the cape of high waterfalls and towering sea cliffs that is our community. I spend most of my time getting lost in the sky, looking down at the lush green world from above. There are times I end up somewhere I shouldn’t, and my dad has to track me down and drag me back home. But I can’t help it. Everything down below always seems so small when seen from the clouds, and I feel big. In the sky, I belong. In the sky, I am true. It is my destiny to touch the stars. 

And my parents agree. Everyone around me cultivates my growth, readys me up for the day my taloned feet will finally leave the nest. My teachers, my parents, my elders all believe in me… until they don’t, I guess. 

A wave of frustration rose up in me. Am I doing something wrong? Why did they stop believing in me? When did I go from gleaming gold to paltry silver?

~~~ 

My wife comes up behind me, the both of us watching our son disappear off the horizon. “Let him fly away. He needs time alone.” 

“He… he doesn’t understand. He thinks he owns the world,” I say to her.

“We all believe that the world belongs to us when we’re young.” 

“I know that. I just hope he doesn’t rush too quickly into this. There’s things that you’re blind to when you’re caught in the freedom of flying…” I shake my head. “I just can’t understand how he’s so gifted at flying, but always struggles with his migratory instinct.” 

“Don’t worry. Even if he’s not there yet, you know he’s got potential. And he’s got us. No one flies alone.” 

Yes, of course. The classic saying, “birds of a feather flock together.” Even if you’re lost and struggling, there is nothing to fear if you know someone has your back. Something to fall on. Someone to save you. It applies to all migratory species, and it has always applied to black swifts. The journey is never supposed to be taken alone. 

I sigh. “I just wish he’d realize that…” 

At that moment, a grating, shrill call echoes throughout the cliffside. My wife and I turn inquisitively. I recognize the nasally voice of one of the elders. 

“Storm! Storm!” he cries, swooping through the treetops. “A storm is coming!” He shoots up high, then lands noisily in the moss of our nest, flapping and cawing loudly. “What’s going on?” my wife asks. 

“There’s going to be a terrible storm!” he babbles gravely, his old-timey, erratic way of speaking giving life to the horrors that follow. “Up north! Snow and sleet and brutal winds. Your boy, we saw him flying… north! Flying north! Can you believe that!?” 

My heart sinks. I turn to the direction my child flew off in. Surely enough, on the horizon, light-gray clouds were beginning to form, their pale color hinting at the snowy turbulence topside. 

My wife spares no time in opening her wings. “Come on! We have to go after him!”

I am numb. At her words, I realize the pointlessness of them. Neither I nor my wife could fly fast enough to catch up to him. And I think she realizes this too, because she sees the look on my face, and then her wings come back to her sides, and she steps back incredulously. 

We stare at the horizon together, but I’m no longer looking at the clouds. Instead, I’m imagining a black dot amongst them, flying straight towards the end of the world, blissfully ignorant of the storm coming for his life. 

~~~

I am still in the sky. By now, I cruise through the pink glow of the evening, and my rage for the world is gone, replaced with a dull animosity. The sun is already disappearing over the skyline. I don’t care. I know I have to go back eventually, and I hate that, but right now, all I want to do is fly. I’ll take the beating from my parents later. 

Or… maybe I don’t have to go back at all. I’d have to leave eventually anyway. Grow up. Find my own calling. That’s what the point of all of this is, isn’t it? And every second I spend flying, getting further and further away from home, I get closer and closer to freedom. I don’t understand why everyone thinks I still have so much longer to go; I am in the sky right now. I could go on the migration right now. 

As I harden my wings against a particularly strong gust of wind, I’m filled with a sense of pride. Yeah… I could go right now, and I’d fly so fast, I would get to the jungles of Brazil in the blink of an eye. Everyone else would arrive months later to see me perched on a high tree, relaxing in the sun. They’d be so embarrassed to doubt me. I’ll go on the migration. I’m going on the migration right now.

And so, somewhere along the way, my idle cruising becomes determined and direct. I hone in. I’m no longer wayfaring. I’m on a mission. A mission to prove them all wrong. I’ll prove them all… what is that? 

Rudely interrupted, I shake off my thoughts, refocusing my attention to what’s in front of me. A speck of white passes by my flank. And then another, right in front of my face. And then another. One falls right on my beak. I look closely at the intricate patterns that fractal from a frozen center. They melt with the warmth of my breath. Snow? But that isn’t right. It only snows in winter, and that’s weeks away. 

I’ve been so busy brooding that I didn’t realize a chill had set into the air. The wind around me picks up suddenly, violently, beginning to scream in my ears. I slow, shivering. Looking around, I find I don’t recognize the terrain. I see nothing but silvery gray skies and the fuzzy silhouettes of mountains in the distance, the land encased in white. The sky and the horizon have blended together in front of me, becoming an amalgamation of blurry shapes. Miles and miles of bodiless land, all covered in… 

A wild panic spreads through my frail body, and I squawk in dismay. 

I’m going the wrong way. 

I instantly whip around, twisting my tail feathers to point in the opposite direction, frantically flapping my wings to push me forward, forward, forward–but the winds raise their voices in defiance, berating me for my negligence, dragging me in against my will. The snowflakes that once fluttered slowly around me begin to whiz past my ears, turning into white streaks in my vision. I’m being sucked into a vacuum. 

Adrenaline fills me. I push back against the winds as hard as I can with as much strength as I have. I’m the best flier in the world. I will not lose to a little snowstorm. I will not lose to a little snowstorm… and for a moment it’s actually true! I am winning, I am fighting back against nature and I am winning, before the clouds catch up to me, and the whiteness begins to get thicker, and I’m sure if I’m facing forward anymore. 

I shriek, but I don’t hear myself. I am ripped from the sky, my body torn from its premature flight, thrown into the spiraling winds and infinite blankness. Blasted with freezing air, my wings calcify, and even if the winds were calm, I know I wouldn’t be able to fly in the cold. The extreme temperatures pierce straight through my thin feathers, sending icy twinges of pain into my flesh like a billion pointed needles nipping and pricking at my skin. 

My head spins–this is the only clue I have that I am actually spinning–like a top. It spins and spins and spins and I can’t see anything else, think of anything else, feel anything else, until something crashes against my back, something stiff and solid like wood, knocking what little air is left in my lungs. I barely have time to feel the impact before I barrel again into something else, something much softer, but much more suffocating. 

Snow sticks to me, surrounding me in a white blindfold. The spinning has stopped, but I am still left dizzy and breathless from my descent to the ground. Everywhere I look, I see nothing but snow. I’m alone in a vacant, cold void. The storm is deafening; it is forever. It doesn’t care how fast I am. It caught up to me anyway. It doesn’t care how much I love flying. It sent me straight down to the earth anyway. And suddenly, the only thing I’ve ever had to my name is useless, and I am left powerless against the adversity that dethroned me. I can do nothing but sit there, pinned to the ground by the force of the winds, being cemented by frost and ice. 

Fear consuming me, I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing the storm, and think of my family, somewhere out there, following my trail closely after my outburst. They’re probably on their way right now. I’m lost and alone and it’s horrible, but the storm will blow over me and my parents will come to the rescue and they’ll scold me for never listening and I’ll be dragged back home again. The fantasy soothes me, and I am finally able to find a bit of warmth in the blizzard. And then, as soon as it began, the storm was over. 

I blink my eyes open. I must’ve blacked out, because I feel so tired and so heavy, and the winds have quieted. The cold must’ve gone away too. I don’t feel anything anymore. I try to stand–at least, I think of standing–but no movement comes to me. 

My gaze settles on the sky. It has cleared, and the black ink of the night is beginning to bloom against the papery clouds. I am so tired. I can do nothing but stare, stare up at the swirling clouds, at the world that I have only ever seen from above, at the stars that have always been dangling above my head, but now are so far away. Huge spheres of flame reduced to nothing but glowing dots when seen from the frozen ground. 

This stupid migration was never about my destiny, was it? It was about my survival. And now… 

Now, I can’t feel my feathers anymore. My body is a stone, sinking into the snow. My vision is as hazy as my thoughts and my mind. My heart no longer races–I feel it slowing. I try one last futile attempt to open my beak and crow for help, but my mouth is frozen solid, and the words are trapped in my throat, dying on my trembling tongue. It’d be no use anyway. There’s no one around. No one to hear me. No one to accompany me but the stars I can’t reach. 

I close my weighty eyes. Heave one last sleepy, shallow breath. And just as I plummeted to the ground, I plummet so deep into a slumber that I know I won’t rise from.

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