Suspended in mid-air between heaven and earth, they soar. No preparations—not for a nano second do they fret, stew, holdback, or shirk this 3,000-mile, seasonal passage.

Oh, those black wings beating over and through the windy currents. Heads held high. Hearts pumping fortitude for the long haul, and eyes focused due south. Inner radar, as old as earth, mapping the journey. Throats honking with abandoned adventure and freedom over the mountains, meadows, rivers, and streams. My spirit sparks to life at their song, wild with joyous expectation.

The birds winging upon the breath of an ancient rhythm and irrevocable calling. At journey’s end, their cold and depleted bodies glide lightly to a restful float in warming waters. A honking, flurry of feathers and webbed-feet awaiting the broken bars of winter’s curse.

Bonnie Saul Wilks