It’s a family, the swarm of birds.
I saw them today, flying with the last rays of the sun, with the chilly breeze, in the clear blue sky.
They swayed to the right, swayed to the left, seemingly indecisively. Naturally, they knew where to go, and had to negotiate, just like families do. They made me think of Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese.
I think of my family now, the ones of blood and the ones I picked up on the way, the members that joined me in the high altitudes of the happy hours. They are with me, in that sky of nomanslands where we are all the same.
When I look into the sky, you know, I don’t see land. No land that I have to call something, that I have to name, just air that I can breathe and in which I can be.
It serves me. I don’t have to serve it. There’s a different kind of living together in the sky, the heavens, than on this path, you know.
So I look at the birds which don’t have to settle, which don’t settle for more than a night. They go with the sun, with the rays, with the call, and their call responds. And as much as I want what they have, what they do, how they live life, I want and will settle one day, in one location, probably. With my flock, hopefully.
So in the water, the flock settles for the dark hours, to seek soft, cold shelter while the earth keeps on turning its one side away from the sun. Their little heads disappear in the warm, oily feathers, and their neighbor watches their back.
Just as the birds, I rest my head now, rising early with the run as well. The call for freedom will reach them and me. They will spread their wings, fly forth, and so will I. Gone with the wind and the gold of the sun, until the night comes again.