The Crimson Wing: Mystery of the Flamingos Page #2

as if, at last,

they sense the destination.

And, reaching the edge

Of the salt island,

find the lake

with its cool, blue water.

And she has made it, too.

Cautiously at first...

...but then...

...up ahead...

...there are the others.

Leaving the salt island,

the chicks enter

the wider kingdom of the lake.

Here, a very different world

awaits them.

A living landscape,

complex and animate.

The Rift's escarpment rises

a thousand feet above the lake,

a rock wall severed

by deep canyons.

Here, amid the shadows

and the swifts,

Water gushes out from hundreds

of underground springs.

The water is rich

in sodium carbonate,

a mineral that creates the

salty chemistry of the lake.

Dozens of springs and rivers

feed into a series of marshes

that border the lake.

Almost all of Natron's life

depends upon the relatively fresh water

of this abundant green maze.

And, for the next few months,

so too will the chicks.

Each morning,

the parents leave their chicks

on the muddy shore

below the marsh.

They spend the day almost

completely unsupervised.

They learn to feed themselves.

Their beaks are developing the

filters and distinctive shape

that will allow them to separate the

algae they need from the mud and silt

Of the marsh.

Her super soft down

is the perfect insulation

against the strong sun.

But it requires frequent grooming,

not only to keep it healthy, but to

encourage the growth of adult feathers.

Without those feathers, she can't fly.

No matter how hard she tries.

There are plenty of things

to want to fly away from.

The mongoose that lives

in the marsh, for instance.

As the chicks change and grow,

life in the marsh goes on.

Routine, yet quietly full of wonder.

At three months old,

she has grown more sure of herself

and her place in the marsh.

Now, her down has transformed

into a juvenile plumage.

And one by one,

Her wing feathers have fledged.

The day comes when she discovers

Her wings are strong enough,

and a whole new way of being

is suddenly possible.

A flight that at first stays

close to the lake and the marsh,

the familiar places

of her life.

But a flight that

will soon release her

above the earth, above

everything she has known.

No longer a chick,

but a young bird

whose wings have given her

the whole Rift Valley.

Every 30 years, Lengai erupts.

Deep in the volcano's molten core,

lava is pulverized by pressure

into ash and thrown upward

into the air.

The ash contains sodium carbonate,

the exact mineral

in the lake's water and soil.

It is as if each aspect

of the lake's landscape

is simply a different form.

A different incarnation

Of the same basic element.

Natron is one place,

water, earth and air.

And the flamingos born

on the lake's salt island,

transformed by its salt water,

embody Natron in a living form.

The flamingo's ceaseless journeys

among the many lakes of the Rift Valley

are nomadic rather than migratory.

For the flamingos

move of their own accord.

Natron, Bogoria, Embakai.

Magadi, Nakuru, Manyara.

They come and go as they want.

Their presence, the sudden

and complete possession of a lake.

But every lake has

its storybook witches.

This time, she keeps her story.

She keeps her secret life.

Just as they arrived at Natron,

like a magic act, the flamingos

suddenly disappear.

Born of salt, they possess the sky,

they absorb the color of the water

and their feathers

burnish crimson as the phoenix.

Their lives are

continual transformation.

And even in death, their forms shift

to something other.

Their feathers, bones, color,

their life force returned

to the lake.

As the seasons change, microscopic life

in the water blooms.

Natron becomes a lake of fire.

After six months without

a single drop of rain,

the color fades and bleaches.

The ash of the volcano blends

with the salt of the lake

and the dust of the earth,

scattering in the

restless dry season wind.

Natron's elements shape-shift,

one into the other.

Ash, dust and salt.

But even this season

of silence will pass.

The story of the bird

is a promise to us.

Nature's affirmation.

In winter or in death,

in times of desolation,

the rain will arrive.

The call of the birds will be heard.

And everything,

everything can begin again.

Lightning bird.

Fire bird. Phoenix.

She will return on crimson wings

and make a nest among the ashes.

And the children of the lake

will be reborn.

Once upon a time,

in the heart of Africa,

there was a lake of fire.

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