Evening Flight Part 3 of 3

I often gaze upwards and smell the breeze that teases me and invites
me to seek out its heady source. Might it have come from the heavens
that are littered with so many glowing lights. On some nights like this
night, the lights bloom in little buds like the field of flowers in
bloom. Only this was a field that faced down from above, its dark
black grass so dense you can hardly see it at all. All you can see are the
millions and millions of flowery lights scattered as far as your eyes can
see. If I can fly and fly without stopping will I ever reach the
mysterious lands on the other side of the sky? Perhaps if I still
possessed the strength of my youth I would take off right this very
moment, in one single, sudden burst of air. I imagine the others like
tiny specks below me, the Two Brothers, nothing but pebbles in
a large pond.

The families who live here have come to also know me as the Quiet
One. Gone are my ability to sing like the others. Our voices are like
our wings, our eyes and our beak. They alert the others of predator
or prey. They come alive during courtship. Or cry at the loss of a
nestling. I never had my own voice for as long as I could remember.
As a child my mother would sometimes forget me because I could not
cry loud enough to get her attention and my food... I could not cry
at all! I often fed on the scraps that fell from my brothers’ mouths.
My bitterness found me eager to learn our flight so that I could leave
the brood at the first available opportunity. I watched as the other
boys grew up and played games, singing their songs. Our tribe is our
music. And our music is especially beautiful when we court. The air
comes alive with such a symphony that send the other tribes into an
envious quiet. The best song always finds you the best mate. I have
heard my father sing once and I so longed to sing like him. But alas,
I was born without a voice. Hence I never found my mate. A tragic
irony for I would have had volumes of stories to tell. She would never
be bored in my company. I would be an excellent father who will
bring more than the usual choice of foods for my children. Alas, but
I have accepted my fate. I fly in silent, circling strides, teasing the
opposite rock brothers. They who have been facing each other for an
eternity with never a word between them except a deep howl on
stormy nights. Even they have a voice.

Now I have lived a life that has been enriched with the many things
I have seen and if you are really observant, you can notice the tiny
lashes from across my forehead and over my eyes.
I am not as young as I used to be, so I take the memories of my
special home with me. It comes alive wherever I am. Everywhere I stop
to rest and close my weary eyes, it is there. The wind. The stoney
perch. The sleeping sound of sea. The two brothers. The magic magnolia
smells. When my eyes are closed, I am once again back on my
evening flight circles. My dance of dusk. These days my failing mind
can hardly tell the difference when my eyes are closed. When one
closes his eyes to sleep, he allows the line between reality and fantasy
to be blurred. The blurring begins at first only slightly. Then in
seconds, you will find yourself plunging forward and your arms
welcome open. Your feathers spread from within your wings to invite
the receiving wind. Your legs curl upwards. And when your eyes are
open again, you are in fantasy’s flight. You are free.

Evening Flight Part 2 of 3

The freak is in flight. I have learnt at an early age to disown myself
from my flock. I am the outcast. The freak. The one with the asymetrical
white stripe down my back. The “fierce feather” whispered by
hysterical mothers to their young who, I know, worship me in secret.
I once had a moppet fly up beside me to try to start a conversation. It
seemed he had idolised me and heard many stories about me and
wondered if they were true. He asked if I could show him the lands
beyond Turtle Hill. Or perhaps the lagoon five clouds away where
they say is entirely covered with green coloured fish. The boy even
asked me if the fable of the two legged creature was true. I have seen
them all of course, and if I had the gift of words I would have led him
astray with my stories and separated him from the flock and his
family. So I smiled but said nothing and accelerated away. I fly alone.
I always fly alone.

My flight-spin from my perch forms a circle in a single direction at
first. And then there is a quick pause before I turn my head to my side
and swing in the opposite direction, but in the same circular fashion.
I don’t need to close my eyes like the gulls when I do this. I am not
without my poise. In the day when I do this, I can see the ocean floor
turn ceiling in one swoop. It is essential that when one turns upside
down, one releasese all the air from the lungs so that when it becomes
time to angle yourself down for the dive, you do not suffocate from
too much air rushing upwards into your mouth. It is very important
to keep one’s sense of perspectives through every single second
of flight.



I have many stories to tell from my adventures abroad. While many
can hardly stay on the migratory path in one safe piece, I have instead,
taken strange roads where my own life was nearly lost. I have seen
many strange lands where tree tops make way to stone tombs that
stand many miles into the sky. I have seen jewelled nights of lights
scattered everywhere on a black carpet landscape. I have seen dry and
arid desert. I have seen death of not just my brothers but of larger
beasts and all. I have found myself hungry and wandering among the
corpses of my kind that have littered across empty plains and fearing
for my fate. And things I don’t want to remember.
But you always come home to the place you love and here is where
I am. Not quite my place of origin but this place. And this place
especially at night. You see, when the night gets this dark and the
moon is at her brightest, it is when scents rise up from the sea and the
beaches below. The scent of magic magnolias rise up and mix with the
myrthy smells of the warm sea-salt air. The entire rock cavern is
swirled into a heady perfume that spins and lulls my distant flocks of
cousins to sleep. Not me. I shall swim in it, spinning a complete
circle in my flight path, my breath in rhythm patterns. The span of
my wings stretch with every turning tide of the midnight breeze.

Evening Flight Part 1 of 3

At this hour of dusk many things can happen. And it can
happen very quickly so look carefully before Day speeds away.
From where I rest I can see right across the abyss that is the
lagoon. Over where the opposite ends of the rock walls eternally stare
at each other are the flying gulls who will scream their lungs out in a
cacophony of shrieks and warbles. These two cliffs have faced each
other since the beginning of time. We call them The Two Brothers.
Those two who have never resolved their quarrel to this day and whose
hands have become homes to our strange community. Here is our
community of birds of unequal feather. And now as Day turns her
back on us again, our community spins into a mad frenzy.



The heavy traffic of birds of unequal feather cross each other’s flight
paths. It is high anxiety, this business of settling in and finding your
rest-place for the night. Unlike the dawn, the night observes a law of
it’s own. It walks into the room of my world like a hasty Father, into
his lounge of squabbling children. He who brings colours of purple,
gold and crimson like a painter and his palette. And in rhythm with
the winds that turn balmy and cool, he splashes the colours into the
once blue sky like a mad artist, splash— purple, splash — gold, splash—
crimson. This is when the screaming dies down and calms into quiet;
while crimson dissipates into the dark, dark velvety violet of night.
The others fuss and fight over the best rest branches. They fly in
broods and rarely have any mind of their own. See how quickly they
become content with whatever little that they have? See how quickly
they come to rest and snap their beak at careless ones who forget their
rightful space? Every family looks over their shoulders and glances at
the young ones. The screaming that has quietened to a murmur now
turns into a sleepy silence.

Silence.

This is my favourite time of the day. I love the quiet. Sometimes it is
so quiet that I can hear them all sleeping. Sometimes all you can hear
are the soft sighs of the wind against your ear. The rest are just the
waves crashing against the rocks so far below us all. Branches of trees
that protrude from the rocky walls rise up and down like a fan, nodding
sideways sometimes. Even the Brothers seem to have made their
peace.

I turn around to see that the community is drunk in slumber.
Children are asleep under their mothers’ breasts. All the world has
lost consciousness, good. I take my deepest breath of the day and dive
off my stoney perch, my eyes closed.