Morning Migration

Herd’s racing fast this morning, driven by a collective inner urge to keep moving, just keep moving. We tear over the charcoal gray trail, tracked smooth and hard as new asphalt. I quickly close in on the slow silver beast with soft rust spots. I curve into the fast lane and pass the old thing with a flourish, careful not to cut in front of him too closely and trip him up. Moments later I’m passed by a growly red Ram leading a troupe of luxury sedans. They swerve in front of me, their red eyes glowing back, unblinking in the early dawn. Fumes of oil exhaust cloud my nostrils and I snort.

Hundreds of us wind over wavy hills, speeding up the inclines and coasting down the backsides. Young sunlight casts long teasing shadows. From afar we are a force of nature—a smooth, deliberate, fluid current running with singular purpose. But down here in the thick of it we keep one eye alert to dark overpasses, camouflaged silhouettes, any bush large enough to hide behind. High-strung, always on the lookout, my pack and I share a common concern: to avoid ambush by the black-and-white cruiser. The snare of the predator successfully blended into the herd—the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Despite my uneasiness I remind myself that police cruisers are good for the herd, culling out those with infirmities of the physical and mental sort. Even in the low light I can pick out the main breed categories: the injured, the ill, the deranged. A nearly extinct Pinto with two broken tail lights and a duct-taped fender that should be put out of its misery. A sickly Impala with foul exhaust and a thumping muffler. An albino Mustang driven to thoughtless erratics, emotional frenzy, or some combination thereof, willing to endanger others and itself. The herd needs predators. Culling is nature’s way of weeding out the unhealthy. Savage sometimes but there it is.

Then, here it is. Jarring blue-white-blue lights pulse. Behind me a chase is on! My heart skips a beat then starts its own race. Immobile trees solidly outline the winding edge of the gray-green forest, fencing me in. As one the herd slows, bunching together. There’s safety in numbers. Stay calm, I remind myself. Fear smells. The police car flies past me, siren wailing like a banshee in a supernatural halo of mesmerizing light. My knuckle cracking grip on the steering wheel relaxes. Breath returns.

A few miles up I come upon the sacrifice. That powerfully built pick-up in blood red that blew past me two hills ago has been caught, brought down beside the lake. Steam rises from the calm watering hole. Sighing, I draw my eyes away from the fresh spectacle and continue on in this, our morning migration.

This beautiful image is from the NOAA, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.