They are the only ones who can see me. I am the only one who can see them. One hundred traveling birds with fluffy feathers and pointed beaks. One hundred among the million in the sky. One hundred airborne wings flapping furiously. From my backyard, I can watch them, but my sister stays inside and doesn’t notice these things.
     

Their pattern is secret. They send mysterious signs to each other. They fly in an organized group and let the wind take their fluttering arms and kiss the clouds with their microscopic mouths and never quit their movement. This is how they move.
     

Let one forget his reason for being, they’d all fall to the ground like a meteor plummeting towards the earth, each gaining speed as they descend. Soar, soar, soar they say when I watch. They dream.
   

 When I am too sad and too tired to keep soaring, when I am a minuscule object thousands of miles below them, then it is I look at the birds. When there is nothing else to gaze at in the atmosphere. One hundred who travel despite rain. One hundred who remain united and never withdraw from the flock. One hundred whose only reason is to migrate.