Schooled addiction has me instinctively following the old signs of migration. THOUGH even for a gypsy child, this constant traveling is beginning to play negatively on my mood and most certainly these tiring joints -- THOUGH despite everything, I've pressed forward. This soul is spurred by anxiety, or rather a sense of unshakable forlorn; I sense that my strange (downright unnatural) adventures in this land are only the first of many to come. Aching knees and sore feet only remind me to be grateful for a young body that can accommodate this toil and my overwhelming earnestness for...the lovely surprises that lie ahead.

Much like a roughly tossed tumbleweed; I've already drifted from those vine covered trees and misty pools.

Far away from those pale trunks, with their highly unusual canopy; the rolling plains of thistle and fig that lie adjacent to the mystical groves. Further still from the overgrown forest that I'd stumbled into weeks ago. Today, I'm caressed by a continuous southern current; destined for warmer tides -- and I can think of no better way to spend the winter, than to be tucked beside the coast. A day passes, my energy wanes, so I sleep on the trail between flying intervals. Soon the salt air grows thick enough to taste and these sensitive ears pick up the faintest call of a hungry gull.

I smile into the wind, all those tiring miles seem worth the pain if only so this soul can behold brilliance. Grassy dunes covered in sunbleached thorn bushes, they eventually thin and stretch to a clear section of alabaster beach. Beyond them is a timeless gem, an awesome sapphire burning up the horizon. Her girth so large it might one day swallow the world. But not today. A delightful laugh is caught by whooshing air, the warmth of a midmorning sun has spread those blessed rays to leave kisses along the lean curve of my spine and between hollow pinions. These lungs expand forcefully, inhaling deep those rich aquatic scents.

As the continuous sweeping noise grows louder by the moment, my energy levels spike and dampened spirits rise. These wings carry me forward with hard, even thrusts. Down, and straining up; rinse and repeat. My serpentine tail has been pulled taunt by the wind, it snaps like a whip. Everything seems perfect...but there was no escaping, or forgetting that around me is an opposing torrent that swims in the opposite direction of the natural wind.

It's just as constant as the tide and strongly more annoying. I still haven't been able to figure out how to turn it off -- or take it off for that matter. Those weightless beads did their giddy little spin, floating a good inch or so from my hide and each other. Over the past week I've been forced to grown accustomed to living within a tornado, a bubble. Maybe one day the cyclone would simply blow itself out. Maybe.

Leaning right, I make tight circles above a clear section of beach; checking, double checking for signs of travel. Seems vacant enough. With a sigh of relief these feathers draw themselves together and like a stone this frame unceremoniously heads for the ground. Hindquarters tilt me back about thirty or so feet from the surface -- both appendages are working, back peddling to drop their bulky shelf upon the spongy surf. All aquatic life has surely scuttled away from their noisy visitor. I plunge into the sea feet first, sending up quite a splash. Foamy water hits my knees, the briskest therapy known to horsekind. A shot of raw pleasure and shock races through my system, until every fiber is sent tingling.

Without bothering to settle or close either ruffled plumage, these limbs slosh deeper until the tip of my belly is cooling with every wavestroke. Towering mounds lay a hundred or so feet from the water; many are covered with snarly weeds that favored this salt life. The tideline is littered with row upon row of seaweed and old shells. A group of gulls swim above, their bluegrey feathers and streamline bodies reminded me of fish slicing through a stream. They yipped, making quite the ruckus, obviously annoyed by something. Surely not me.