The Fable of the Swallow by Barry J. Northern A large roost of swallows settled about a tree, whose thinning branches fractured the sunset. One swallow among them stood on a high branch before her brood and proclaimed the end of Summer. "My children. It is time for us to journey towards the Sun, to our wintering grounds." The children became excited, especially one young lad from the first brood who had been dreaming of the wintering grounds ever since an old swallow told him of the burnt fields, teaming with fat flies. More than the promise of a great feast under a strong sun, however, Firstborn desired to make nest and find a wife. He saw a younger brother on a lower branch, and hopped down to say farewell. "I'm going now, brother, for I cannot wait. Will you fly with me?" Secondborn laughed. "No-one may fly as fast as you, brother. But what is the hurry? Will you not roost here tonight and wait for the flock to leave?" "No, I want to be there as soon as possible. I'll make the finest nest you ever saw!" And with a flicker of feathers Firstborn was gone. Secondborn rose with the flock the next morning. He enjoyed the leisurely pace and the nightly roosts. Though he caught his food on the wing and kissed his wavering reflection as he passed over lakes to slake his thirst, he still took the time to look about him at the changing landscape. He had never imagined the world so large, nor so varied. The trees and mountains, sprawling man-nests and glittering seas, all of it swelled his heart through his glistening eyes. Another young bird took to flying with Secondborn, for she too admired the lands over which they travelled. They began to sit together when roosting more and more, and the old ones smiled and sang. Meanwhile, Firstborn flew with relentless speed towards the wintering grounds. He fancied he could see lines in the sky drawing him forwards, and he never doubted his path. He had passed other flocks, and roosted with them on occasion, but so eager was he to reach his destination, he always set off before the rest of the roost were roused by the rising sun. If it were a choice between taking a diversion for more plentiful fields and clearer waters, or a less desirable but shorter path, Firstborn always chose the latter. He reached the wintering grounds days before the rest of his brood. He stopped and looked around him for the first time since beginning his long flight. He felt drained of purpose. The fields were lonely, not at all as he had imagined, and though the food was plentiful, he almost felt too weak to feed. But feed he did, and his strength soon returned, though he had not the energy nor the inclination to build a nest for several days. He had still not begun to built when Secondborn arrived with the flock. The younger brother had already married his sweetheart on the journey, and as the happy pair settled down to make nest, they congratulated Firstborn on his speed, and spoke of all the wonderful sights they had seen on the way, but Firstborn just smiled, for he had seen nothing of which they spoke. "Success is a journey not a destination." The Fable of the Swallow by Barry J. Northern is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License. Hosted by The Internet Archive, download MP3here. Music by David Modica from the album, Stillness and Movement, track 2 Fresh Breath, and provided by magnatune.com