This group of birds had been flying hard for over two weeks. The air became warmer as they migrated which was good for him. The skies were beautiful in most places. Some of the things that he saw as they flew were so moving he thought he’d fall from the sky but he didn’t dare slow their pace. He felt just as drawn as they seemed to be and he didn’t know why. They roosted at night and scavenged at dawn. He’d watch while the older ones helped the younger ones forage or steal, but otherwise the murder was on the move. In the places where it was colder they stopped more often and would huddle around him, offering their warmth. He was grateful. He was glad that they flew during the day or his wings would have faltered dropping him to the ground. He could have run after in one of his other forms, but he didn’t like the idea of slowing the murder down. He realized it was a few large families. He didn’t know why they had chosen to migrate as they were but couldn’t argue with the company. The pull was getting stronger. They were getting closer. He wished he had some inkling of what exactly they were getting closer to. 

How much further would their journey take them? He generally knew the size of the United States and generally knew how much ground they were covering which put them generally in the middle of the country. He was glad for the climate change but unsure of their purpose. He had to trust what he was feeling, what they were feeling. Soon it would become gravely clear, of that he was certain.