I am the bird in the center of a tessellating flock of thousands. I am swept along by the whim of outer ranks I cannot see. The sweeping dance of the whole flock at the core feels like a ceaseless swelling of cruel, winter tides. I cannot see the sky around, nor the direction of the flock, nor possess the knowledge of the next turn of the quickening reel of chaos. I try to think, but all I hear is the deafening cacophony of chirps. I grow impatient at the axis of this migratory flock in my life. Unable to see ahead, think forward, or fully comprehend the vacillations at present, I weary. Slowing the beat of my wings, praying for the next breath of sustaining wind, I continue flapping blindly with the flock.