Bird's Eye

The bird spread its wings and flew. That familiar sensation appeared once more, but the creature was impervious to it. The act of flying was as common and everyday as walking was to humans, Homo sapiens, those creatures of the earth. This avian was a beast of the sky, however. The ground was for prey. The earth bred the rats, the moles, and, most importantly, fish. She was the life-giver and mother to the sky. Soil; the laboring worker. Wind; the free-spirited child.

Its feathers adjusting minutely to accommodate for the turbulence, the osprey caught a thermal rising up off the side of an office building. It turned sharply and headed west, towards its nest. The lake glimmered ahead in the distance, offering a stunning parallel to the artificial towers opposite. A few boats drifting on the water's surface could be seen, bobbing gently in the breeze. The osprey took little notice of the details; its brain was not developed to appreciate beauty. It processed this information spatially, but not aesthetically.

Letting the thermal lift it to an adequate height, the bird glided towards the lake, letting gravity work its magic. Unlike the creatures of the ground, winged beasts used and manipulated gravity, using its force and converting it into distance. The sun gleamed off the osprey's feathers, illuminating its back. Its scowling face was adorned by a black mask, highlighting its cold, unfeeling eyes. But these dark feathers' actual purpose was more practical, reducing the glare of the sun upon the osprey's eyes. Spotting the tree in which it nested, the bird alighted upon a branch with ease.

The clouds to the north were foreboding, casting a shadow upon that section of the city. Humidity hung in the air. Thunder could be heard in the distance, drowning out the noise of the streets. The humans knew rain was coming. Planning accordingly, they changed their appointments and updated their calendars. Children playing outside soon were called in by their mothers. Weatherman forecast a downpour, with possible hail. Beasts other than men, too, retreated to their shelters. Bears returned to their caves and moles to their tunnels. Thus, most creatures returned to their respective lairs; most creatures, but not the osprey.

Pushing off from the branch, the osprey's eyes swept the surface of the lake. It circled the water and keenly observed the ripples below it. Gazing, watching, waiting for a creature of the water to betray itself. Moving towards the shore, the boats on the lake retreated. They would be back, but they did not like the rain. All the better, for they scared away the fish with their ugly noises.

Movement! A ripple of water, and a swiftly-moving beast below it. The osprey bore down upon the area, fighting the ever-increasing wind, carefully adjusting every feather and muscle, doing what it was born to do. Its talons were grasping at the air, hungry for flesh, ready to squeeze life out of something. The bird hit the water, grabbing a scaly body that squirmed and thrashed. The fish weighted down its captor, pulling the osprey halfway underwater. But the swimmer was the prey; the flier, predator. Flapping its wings furiously, the avian pulled up, splashing water as it rose. Positioning the fish to face forward, the osprey drove its claws into the frail body, effectively ending its life. The danger had not passed yet, however. The sky was safer than the ground, but it was still fraught with hazards. Especially so when carrying food; competitors roamed the clouds.

The osprey wheeled around in the air, locating its nesting spot. It propelled itself forward, still managing to look graceful in spite of the heavy load it was carrying. A rain drop hit its wing. Thunder was heard once more, but this time, it was closer. The osprey returned to its nest and began to feast while the storm rolled in.

Rain was the enemy of the sky. It purged the air, and cast everything to the ground. During a storm, the gods Lightning and Thunder ruled cruelly. Deafening cracks resounded throughout the air, deafening to humans, yes, but even more so to the sensitive hearing of the osprey. By now, the boats on the lake had disappeared, and hail was beginning to come down. The bird clutched desperately to its branch as wind pushed the tree to and fro. With every roar of thunder and flash of lightning, the bird resolved to hang on ever longer. The survival instinct was strong: life was survival, survival was life. The purpose of life was, indeed, to be alive.

It was a long night.

Morning broke as the last of the storm melted away. The lake was full to the brim, as was the river winding out of it. The air was fresh and new, and men walked the streets, traveling to their respective working quarters. Everyone in the city had survived the storm. So, too, had the osprey. The bird would live another three years.

Its death came about on a sunny day, a gentle breeze present in the air. It was migrating southward, with its fellow ospreys. A steady flapping of the wings kept them aloft, their soft calls reverberating throughout the area. I do not know where our bird died, and I do not know who killed it. A hunter, no doubt, had his sights trained upon it from the ground. With a weapon, he reached out from the earth and into the sky, and brought down a prize. It sounded so much like thunder. Except this time, there was no tree to hide in. The osprey fell, tumbling through the air, while its group progressed onwards without it. Not once did the bird's family feel sorrow for its death, nor could they. They were just beasts, and they were not truly alive.

Not alive in the sense that they pitied, or felt, or wondered, or dreamed. Wholly a gear in the large mechanism of the world, they chugged along with steadfastness, their one goal, survival. Survival for what, though? Survival for the sake of friendship? There was no friendship. Survival for the sake of joy? They could not truly experience joy. Then what? Survival for pain? Oh, there was pain. But without that essential element, an element which, perhaps, only humans possess, what was life? Isn't life in the living?

Perhaps not. For these birds, life was for life. But though they did not know it, they contributed more. They, along with the other beasts, contributed everything. Together they worked in harmony, and gave life not to themselves, but to the world. Working as one, earth and sky and water were joined together in an intricate web, greater than the sum of its parts. And further still, they contributed to man. Without the world, man was nothing. But in the same way, without man, the world was a blot of ink on a page, a page in the book of life. In unity, however, they became a page, and in time, a whole book unto themselves.

So, I propose that the life of this bird was not in vain. Together with its brothers, they gave more than any of them could give alone. This one osprey was but a single thread, but with all the plants and animals of past and present, they were a magnificent tapestry; the tapestry of life.