It’s that time again.

Time for new beginnings, to right the wrongs of the previous annual cycle.

It begins as usual. I awaken from my slumber, burst forth into a world that is color and chaos. Bursts of kaleidoscopic fire light up the dark desert sky and the city just a few miles south of my rook is abuzz with color and jubilation. Surely, they’re celebrating my return, yes? It is the only connection I can make between my awakening and the jets of shrieking, celebratory fire.

I hop to the ledge of my rook and flex my wings. Amniotic threading still stretches amidst my skin as I am still fresh from my annual hibernation. I rub my knuckles across my sleep crusted eyes and gaze into the cacaphonous night.

Each year I tell myself I will do things differently. Each year … well, I only have 27 hours per cycle before my chrysalis reforms, against my will. Why such an exact timeframe, I fear I will never know. I only have 27 hours to… eat. Could you blame me for choosing such easy prey? On this night, this night of new beginnings, this night of revelry: the land dwellers stagger about, dazed into a stupor from the intensity of their celebration. These are the ones I pluck, ripe and plump. Juicy and…what is that taste? Oaky, almonds. Hops and grains. I grow dizzy, I lose my equilibrium.. but I want more

Every year I choose these buffoons for easy prey and every year the same result: I absorb their affliction and inevitably spend the remaining 26 hours in an equally dazed stupor. It’s all I can to make it back to my rook, on unsteady wings, and slumber in the safety of my age old home.

This year, I will spend what little time I have and seek answers. Why do I only have such a small window of activity? Why do I feast on these chatty, two legged beasts? What is the true purpose of this noise and celebration?

Why am I .. what I am?

THIS year. I will learn the reason for my being.

But lo and behold, beneath my ledge: a vehicle, several temporary canvas dwellings in the parched, cold desert. A raging fire, upon which more revelry occurs. I can tell by their boorish exclamations that they have fallen victim to the stupor.

I flex my wings again, stretch my talons, my long and sinewy legs. I gnash my fangs and crack my six knuckled hands. I swoop down, judging my angle and velocity that will be ideal to impale a particularly rotund and loud one.

I will feast well tonight. I will indulge heartily! I will celebrate this new cycle in style!


I know I said things would be different. And I’m still curious

…. but then….

There’s always next year

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