The Flock

A small bird grew up among ducklings.

She did not remember how she got there.
Only that she had always been with them.

They moved together.
Across the grass.
Into the water.
Back again.

She followed.

She learned to waddle.
Short steps.
Close to the ground.

She learned to swim.
Or tried to.

The others moved easily.
Their bodies settled into the water.

Hers did not.

She splashed more.
Pushed harder.
Sometimes swallowed water.

Still, she stayed close.

She thought
this was how it was supposed to feel.

As they grew,
the differences became clearer.

Their bodies rounded.
Feathers thick and smooth.

Hers stretched.

Lighter.
Sharper.

Her wings felt too large.
Unbalanced.
She kept them folded.

She watched carefully
and copied what she saw.

She did not question it.

Only that everything
seemed harder for her.

One afternoon,
a crack split the quiet.

Sharp.
Close.

The ducks lifted their heads.

Then all at once—

they ran.
Toward the water.

She ran with them.

The ground blurred.
The air shifted.

The others reached the edge
and pushed forward.

She followed.

Another crack.
Closer.

But something caught.
Not the ground.
Something in her.

Her wings opened.

Suddenly.
Wide.

She didn’t mean to.

The air lifted her.

At first,
she struggled.

Then she rose.

Above the water.
Above the movement.

The ducks scattered below.

At the edge of the field,
a man with a rifle stood still,
watching.

But it did not reach her.

She circled once.

Unsteady.
Then steadier.

The ground no longer held her
the same way.

She looked down.

They were still running.
Still moving
as they always had.

She did not follow.

She turned.
The air opened in front of her.

And for the first time,
nothing felt difficult.

She kept going.