Hidden doors to the unknown

Delicate nostrils anxiously swell open - absorbing, suckling the arid, pungent taste of dampness, rotting vegetation and salt. Another unsettling, tropical forest rears itself up. Though notably, this land wasn't labeled 'peculiar' because of the odor, I’ve traveled to many shores (with Noah) and the fragrance of brine had become second nature: germinated like a granule of sand in the belly of an oyster. Feathers thrum, flaring their shafts – instinctively adjusting to changes in tension and velocity. Behind me, Noah has situated himself to soldier our rear. Grey, ominous clouds loom high above us; they swell, becoming chaotic waves in a terrible ocean. Only once in the past few weeks had the sun tried for a thinning spot, drawn to weakness…the brief, filtered glow had brought tight longing for one unexpected moment and grim disappoint shortly after when it was recloaked. In those early days I'd (naively) thought the storm was simply hung up in the south – it was a strong, stagnate tropical gall. One of those slow burning, gradual hurricanes. It wasn’t until we escaped the gnarled, spectral riddled forest and took wing that my assumption was brutally murdered. The grey bleakness went on for countless miles – as far as we could see in any direction. It tumbled across heaven, yawning into rivets and valleys which looked like rolling mountains…scorched by fire from foothill to pinnacle. Currently, these resistant feathers could shed a light drizzle – but in thicker weather (and it often was thick,) they became waterlogged, completely useless. Below our elevated vantage, bizarrely shaped/colored foliage tapers off, surrendering ground to the stunning, navy ocean. If there was any notion festering in my head of traveling across the big water to find greener pasture – it was silenced by the deadening view of terrible cyclones and thick, smoky blackness that could only be more storms... Irises narrow, fixed ahead -- staring beyond the jagged, overgrown mainland -- their interest is held by a secluded green patch which sat astride the chaotic weather with prim confidence. An island; a vein entirely disconnected from the heart. These wings slow their stride, easing up. Ears twist, habitually listening for the deep noise of heavier arms to gauge position with my mate. This narrow muzzle turns in his direction, their two-toned corners are puckered downward, openly torn between thoughtfulness and uncertainty. Though he'd willingly given the lead over for the time being, I was reluctant and hesitant to control our path.