Migration

They sang in unison, matching each other’s pitch as they orchestrated the migration across the vastness.  Their flight was unknown, an inner voice their only guide.  The young struggled to keep up, nestled within the sanctity of the formation.  Freedom was their song as they looked down upon the greens, browns, and blues below.  Waves and ripples beneath them seemed to rush forward, rising high as if in a hurry to catch up.  The green leaves of outstretched branches of tall trees waved in a flurry while the red and yellow fallen swirled in their place, dancing to the rhythm of the song high above.  Freedom is what the elements craved, from not each other, but from their own self.  Liberation of the soul they desired even if it meant hanging on to one wing, one note, or to the nothingness above.