Phyllis has written for us before, and shows a much understanding of humanity
and
nature in her sensitively written pieces.
A HAZARDOUS JOURNEY
The sky is a brilliant blue and the sun warm and comforting, making one think of long
lazy afternoons. Yet already, the swallows are queuing for their passports. Every
year at this time, the overhead wires are laden with twittering, chittering, muttering,
fluttering balls of feathers.
The wires sway crazily as some of the younger birds play catch-as-catch can, while
others show off their skills as trapeze artists. No thoughts of future dangers worry
them. A baby, attempting to glide gracefully, falls too low, and immediately a dozen
helping wings are there to swoop him up with many pecks of affection and
admonition. The parents sit huddled together and the air is filled with their gossip.
Swallows differ from other birds in that they no longer walk on the ground, but catch
their food on the wing, and after many years of evolution Nature in her wisdom has
devised curled claws for wire-sitting convenience.
The leader of the flock sits on one of the insulators on the telegraph wires planning
each detail of the long journey on which they are to embark. Tiny wings must lift and
fall a million times, through the heat of the sun, the darkness and blinding rain. They
will be buffeted by storms and blown off course by gale force winds. Sometimes they
will be called upon to face hurricanes with terrifying lightning and roars of thunder.
Tiny specks in a vast expanse of threatening sky. They are so vulnerable. There will
be other times when there will be no food or water available before they reach their
destination. How many of his brave little group will survive. Why do they have to
make this hazardous journey year after year?
With some melancholy he watches them dive, sweep and soar, so swift and graceful,
a beautiful sight to behold. Heaving a small sigh he resumes his meditation. He has
been on this trip a few times before and is a seasoned traveller, so he knows that it
will take a couple of weeks of organising.
Every day he gathers his little band together and puts them through their paces,
exercising and strengthening their wings, building up stamina for their winter exodus.
There can be no shirking; the weak or lazy will not survive.
Daily they wait for the leaves to turn colour. The young ones are exuberant at the
thought of adventure while the elders rehearse the flight formation, ensuring that the
weaker birds stay in the middle of the group while in flight. They discuss possible
food sources, the shortest route, the protection of the young. The wise ones suggest
that it would be better to avoid crossing the ocean because of possible food
shortages and as sometimes the storms are fiercer over the sea, they must consider
the weak and young. As in groups all over the world, there are those who argue,
grumbling that the cross-country route is longer and more tiring. The babble rises
higher but in the end all agree to follow the leader. He will certainly guide them in the
best way; they will put their trust in his experience.
The boss-man preens his tail feathers, at the same time cocking a bright eye to the
sky. Now there is a slight nip in the air. Yet the leaves have not begun to fall. If he
departs before the time his group may be scorched by the sun. If he leaves it too late
they may have to fly through ice and blizzards and the weak may not survive the
journey. It is a difficult decision for a little bird to make. However, being a very special
creation, he leaves it to his instinct and knows he will be told when the time is right.
The leaves on the peach tree are beginning to turn yellow. You never saw such a
hustle and bustle, the noise is shocking. Tension rises higher. There is time for one
last rehearsal, then farewells must be exchanged with those feathered friends who
have opted to sit out the winter months.
They make sure that their nests are absolutely cat-proof as they hope to return to
these homes next year and, with building space being at a premium, they do not
want to start house hunting as soon as they return. Just for luck, the littlest swallow
gives a twittering giggle and dives right to the ground in front of the yard cat.
“Cheerio,” he calls, “see you next year.” Hurriedly, ashamed of the tear that lurks in
his eye, the cat washes a paw.
Excitement mounts and the crescendo of noise rises as they line up on the wire for
the last time. The leader anxiously counts his charges and once again wonders how
many will make the return journey. Will ice coat their feathers and force them to land
in a cold climate? Will the little ones be strong enough to fly against the wind? Will
they find enough to eat? He has seen many birds hurled whirling and twirling to
earth, caught in a vortex of air and there have been those too frozen and numb to fly
any more. Then there is the threat of birds of prey. A tender little swallow makes a
tasty morsel for a buzzard or an eagle. There are so many dangers to be feared on
this long, long journey. Ah well, it has to be faced. Since the dawn of time, birds have
been entering on this great adventure and will continue doing so for evermore. The
salmon must feel the same way about their yearly leap to death.
With a swift swallow’s prayer to his Creator, he whistles for departure. Suddenly the
air is filled with the rush of wings and a blue streak shimmers upwards. They are
away. Up, up, ever higher into the heavens until only a line of black dots remain in
view.
“Goodbye harbingers of Spring. Bon Voyage and safe return.”