I knew that birds flew south for the winter but I’d never thought that eventually they must fly back, and yet here they were. Hundreds and hundreds of bird silloutes appeared in front of the sunset. They rose from surrounding buildings like dust does when you blow on a shelf that has been left untouched for awhile. Joining together they flew in lines, one long ribbon into the northern sky. Another season was ending and it would be the last of this phase of my life. Southern California only has two seasons: summer and a pathetic excuse for winter. When the next season ends graduation will have passed and I will be an adult. I am terrified of the next season.
But I am comforted in the knowledge that some things will not change. Birds will stay in one place only as long as they are meant to. I watch until every last bird has disappeared to the north and the sky is blushed pink from the setting sun, and suddenly very clear.
*photo by me
