Thoughts during Fall Migration

When I was growing up, there were birds and insects everywhere.  Fleets of robins that would arrive on our lawn in April and start mining for worms, cocking their black heads to put ears to the ground and poking their bright yellow beaks into the grass to pull out wriggling worms.  Bright red male cardinals and their softer-hued mates stood out against the snow like Christmas ornaments or perched in the dogwood trees, matching the colorful berries.  Cocky bluejays and satiny black crows swooped down on the nests in our neighborhood each summer, making harsh cries while they gobbled up nestlings. Birds, like the plentiful and “icky” insects of our world, were simply there.  I noticed but didn’t pay much attention. I was more engrossed by things that interest me not at all now.

I remember evenings beginning with the voices of crickets and the first calls of whippoorwills and nighthawks. As night fell, the backyard was dappled with fireflies blinking in charming clusters as bats darted among them, searching for food. Then, the katydids started their repetitive calls, impossibly loud and distinct. In the morning, moths—both large, colorful ones and small, plain brown ones—covered the screen door. On August afternoons, the garden buzzed with swallowtails, mourning cloaks, and monarch butterflies. We collected bright green and gold beetles in boxes to feed to the box turtles we kept as pets before releasing them. Come fall, numerous spiders settled in large webs along the wrap-around porch, while jumping spiders lurked on picture frames inside, gazing back at me with multiple intelligent-looking eyes. After the first frost, we would hear screech owls and great horned owls, and sometimes, a ghostly barn owl appeared. This was in a leafy suburb near a big campus. I am thankful to have these memories.

I never worried about whether these fellow creatures would survive.  I just assumed they would.  Now, as we enter the peak of fall migration, where millions of birds make perilous journeys to their wintering grounds, I feel differently.  These birds are my neighbors and even my friends. I’ve been cheered by their arrival each spring to find mates and raise young.  I’ve listened to their songs, day and night, and found some of their nests.  I’ve enjoyed meeting their fledglings, who are fluffy and unafraid and come with their parents to my feeders.  I desperately want them to succeed and come again.  May the weather hold so they don’t run into hurricanes or ice storms and get blown down into deep waters.  May the lights be extinguished in the many buildings they must pass.  May they avoid power lines, wind turbines, and forest fires and arrive safely home.  And may their leafy homes, their wetlands, the beaches, and the habitat they need, be there to welcome them when they come.  I say goodbye to these amazing creatures that bring me so much joy and hope to see them again in the spring, not just for myself but for every person who needs to feel the magic of creation, and I promise to never, ever, take it for granted.

Feeling as I do for birds migrating, how can I not feel the same for my fellow human beings, who like the birds, must make dangerous journeys to survive? Do they not deserve the same reverence as the birds? I believe they do because, like the birds, they are God's creation. Be safe as you travel, my friends.