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The cerulean dome that surrounds me is unlike the one from which I hatched, in that it is endless. On the days when the grass is at its utmost vibrance, the flowers at their peak of pollen secretion, and the Four-Leggeds at their rowdiest as they graze My Farmer’s land, the upward abyss entrances me with its infinitesimal existence. Such a feeling to experience the burning star’s warmth upon my feathers, only to suddenly shiver as a mountainous cloud passes over me and shrouds me in darkness!
My Farmer stands idly atop their porch today. And I, as always, hover just above their shoulder. I mimic their gaze, soaking in the sights of our abundant land. Leaves of an array of promising shades of green have sprouted from our deeply rich soil, a product of our planting of various pellets in the earliest days of this season. No doubt they would culminate into plump fruits and nutritious vegetables that we would preserve into the highest quality of artisan goods!
I am a faithful companion. Wherever My Farmer goes, such is my destined path as well. This creed leads me to one of the many dwellings of the Four-Leggeds, the ones with the stubby horns protruding from their furry heads. I used to watch these creatures with fascination, acutely impressed at their ability to hold, secrete, and overall produce the substance that procures much of My Farmer’s growing wealth. However, the initial intrigue soon faded upon the realization that this is the extent of their duty to My Farmer. To live a life solely revolving around eating, bleating, dispensing, and resting in a home that lacks any of the fine furnishings My Farmer has acquired inside their own, must be bleak beyond belief. If only they had wings! Perhaps then, they would find some other purpose for My Farmer and experience a taste of adventure for themselves.
Though I offer some sympathy to the Four-Leggeds, the ones I truly feel pain for are the Penguins. I once believed that such creatures resided in arctic conditions, and I had even clung to the idea that their existence was entirely fictitious. Imagine my horror when I first laid my eyes on a whole flock on My Farmer’s land! Oh, what cruel whims of fate—to be born with wings but unable to use them! Though their emerald feathers sell for a pretty penny, their profits are no contest compared to those of My Farmer’s own agricultural endeavors, much less the work of the faithful Four Leggeds. My pity runs deep for the Penguins. Without flight, they live immobile lives where—similarly to the Four-Leggeds—they are regulated to serving My Farmer in limited ways, unable to tap into their primordial abilities that would grant them everlasting bounds of freedom.
And yet, I would be dishonest if I said their meek livelihoods don’t evoke from me a wicked sense of pleasure. The feeling goes beyond gratitude for My Farmer’s companionship, and it is more akin to a smug conviction of my superiority over these distant relatives of mine. For it is I whom The Farmer totes around; it is I who resides in My Farmer’s abode; it is I who can fly into the cerulean dome amongst the clouds if I ever so choose to.
I remain on the same altitude as My Farmer out of loyalty—this trait of mine is the one of which I am most proud. The only trait that could compete is my ability to nab gold from the dastardly monsters that roam the Underworld. In blurs of iridescent purples, My Farmer strikes at these savages, bringing about their swift demises, but not before I can fulfill my purpose of draining them of their unnecessary possessions. If there is a Hell beyond Hell, these beasts need not these piles of gold My Farmer and I secure for our deserved luxuries.
The echoes of ghostly wails ring in synchrony with the jangling treasure bouncing in My Farmer’s trusted knapsack. Oh, how my heart beats with elation when I dive into the pockets of these dying brutes! My Farmer’s debauched grin after eradicating a horde of treasure-holders further excites me as we continue our descent into this realm of monsters on such days where grand fortune awaits us (as decreed by the woman shrouded in constellations who materializes daily through a portal inside My Farmer’s homestead).
But on days where Lady Luck remains in her comfort of neutrality, days much like this one, My Farmer and I make the most of the hours by tending to our agricultural and livestock empire. It is far from the most exciting way to obtain wealth, but a voyage into the Underworld, where the monsters and treasures are few and far between, would be exceedingly more dull than our mundane chores.
It is on these days of forced tranquility that I indulge in a distant fantasy—a fantasy of mine long before I met My Farmer. In this fantasy, my wings stretch out and touch the horizons of which the sky meets the sea. My pathway spirals upward as I fly around the mast of a great ship that would put that shoddy, local fisherman’s boat to shame. My feathers flutter against the cool air I cut through to sit atop the broad shoulder of my imaginary pirate. My Pirate commands the attention of his crew without so much as looking upon them; he points to a distant land, hollering victoriously after countless trials of navigating the grueling ocean for many suns and moons.
Amidst these cheers, My Pirate rewards me with a fond expression—a vast departure from their otherwise scowling, unimpressed visage. With a curt nod of their head, I overflow with pride as they return their gaze to the bounty nearly within their grasp. The freedom I experience whilst soaring through the sky, wings stretched from horizon to horizon, is unparalleled by the overwhelming satisfaction of fulfilling my loyalty to My Pirate.
Emerging back to reality, I realize I’ve followed My Farmer to the aforementioned dingy boat owned by the humble fisherman with a rather scraggly appearance. My disappointment was immeasurable when I realized years ago that he was not of the pirate variety despite his affinity for the seaside. Nevertheless, My Farmer is grateful for the nautical passage, as am I. The careful voyage may allow me enough time to tuck away the fantasy for another day, though it is becoming increasingly difficult to recall in all its vivacity as of late.
My Farmer lurches forward as we arrive on the sandy beach of my home island. And when I say “home island,” I am referring to the home of my kind—not me. My home is with My Farmer. My loyalty commands it.
I remind myself of my grand loyalty as my brethren glide above me. I cannot help but stare at them as My Farmer tends to their tropical crops. Our physical attributes are identical: the green bodies that gradient into a tangerine neck and transform into a fiery red at the head. There are none like me back in Pelican Town. And perhaps that is the true reason behind my self-proclaimed dominance over the Penguins. It is not that they are unlike me—it is me who is unlike them.
I am not granted such individuality here on this island.
On Ginger Island, I am the one who is looked down upon—both because my brothers and sisters take to the skies, and because my loyalty is mistaken for entrapment. I recognize the domineering look cast my way, as I have been on the gifting side countless times. At this, I cannot help but shrink myself in ways I never do back home.
Home.
My brethren would sneer at the very thought if their anatomy allowed them such an expression. To think that a creature meant for the skies and seas spends its existence surrounded by monotony, lesser beings, and domesticity. The duality of my existence—wasted on the pitiful notion of a home! In actuality, the very concept is a romanticized version of stagnation, and it is a curse that such a fate has befallen upon me.
What tragic fate it was for My Farmer to whisk me away from the Underworld and to choose me out of all of the identical trinkets that could’ve bestowed upon them wondrous abilities. Indeed, it was my egg My Farmer chose to keep for themself, and so it was I who emerged from my shell and entered a world of scourging through dirt, mingling with country-bumpkins, and waiting at the hands of Mother Nature for prosperity.
My tropical relatives could not begin to comprehend the injustice of my entire being. To endlessly dote upon the one who stripped me of what could have been a life of endless flight across seas—a life that would be under my complete control. With every action being one of my own volition! And I know with utter conviction that I would have spent such a life looking for My Pirate, believing that my life would only ever truly begin when I found my rightful place upon their shoulder.
That is the life I would have been destined to live, had My Farmer not found me.
My brethren continue to soar overhead, casting shadows upon the farmland, but I pay no mind to their looks of pity as I perch upon My Farmer’s straw hat. I am not an ensnared animal that is trapped for my labor, nor am I a symbol of blind devotion to those who show me a sliver of kindness.
I know they would never understand me, just as I no longer understand a life dedicated to the pursuit of an abstract dream.
I am My Farmer’s companion. I will remain by their side, not out of loyalty nor necessity, but because it is the life that I choose for myself. A farmer’s life—made up of our excursions to the Underworld, our visits to Ginger Island, and our domestic days in Pelican Town—is the life for me.