The Falcon Who Left the Cliffs

There was once a young peregrine falcon who believed the elders spoke too often and listened too little. They told her stories of the cliffs where they nested—how those gray stone walls had stood for thousands of years, shaped by wind and sea, yet strong enough to carry generation after generation of falcons.
They spoke with reverence, as if the cliffs themselves were living elders.
But the young falcon felt only discomfort.

The cliffs were cold. The stone wept with moisture. Salt spray clung to her feathers, stiffening them. The wind never rested. To her, it felt less like safety and more like endurance for the sake of tradition.
There must be a better way, she thought. A warmer way. A smarter way.
And so, with the certainty that only youth can possess, she decided to prove them wrong.
One morning, before the sun had fully risen, she left the cliffs behind. She flew inland, toward a forest she had often seen from a distance. From above, it looked lush and forgiving. Soft leaves instead of jagged rock. Shelter instead of exposure. She imagined flocks of peregrines following her one day, abandoning the cliffs for something kinder.

The forest greeted her with unfamiliar wings. Red kites circled above the canopy, large and broad, gliding with ease. They were heavier than her, slower—but she was fast. She cut through the air like an arrow, delighting in the startled cries she left behind. Speed, she believed, was proof enough that she belonged anywhere she chose.
Deep within the forest, she found a clearing. At its center stood the remains of an old castle. Only a portion of wall still stood, thick stone rising stubbornly from the earth. The rest had long since crumbled back into the ground.
She paid it little attention.
Instead, she chose a tall birch tree nearby and settled into the crook of one of its branches. The bark was pale and smooth. The leaves whispered gently. This, she decided, would be home.

She gathered sticks, clutched them in her beak, and began to build. But the branches shifted beneath her. The sticks refused to lock together. Grass slipped loose. What should have been simple became frustratingly fragile.
Days passed. Each attempt collapsed into another.
She worked harder. Tried smarter. Still, nothing held.
Then one afternoon, as clouds thickened overhead, a red kite swooped down and landed heavily on a nearby branch. The limb bent under her weight, groaning.
“What are you doing, kid?” the kite asked, amusement coloring her voice. “Don’t you know there’s a storm coming?”
The falcon ignored her and tried to bind two sticks together with grass.

“Didn’t your family ever teach you how to build a nest?”
The question struck deeper than the kite intended. For the first time since leaving the cliffs, the falcon felt a sharp ache. She imagined her family, their patient warnings, their quiet disappointment if they could see her now.
“How far away is the storm?” she asked, her voice subdued.
“About an hour.”
An hour.
Even at full speed, she would never make it back to the cliffs in time.
The kite’s expression softened. “Follow me,” she said.
They flew to the kite’s nest, high in an oak tree. It was impressive—thick walls of sticks and feathers woven with care and experience. As the wind began to howl, they tucked themselves inside.
The storm came fast and violent. Wind tore through the forest, snapping branches, ripping leaves free. The nest shuddered. Pieces broke away and vanished into the darkness. Cold crept in. Fear followed.
“I don’t think it’s going to hold,” the kite shouted.

The falcon felt it too. The structure was strong, but not strong enough for what was coming.
Without waiting, she leapt into the storm.
“Fly behind me,” she called.
“I’ll be blown away!”
“We will if we stay!”
The kite hesitated only a moment before launching herself after the falcon. Together they fought the wind, wings burning, vision blurred by rain and debris.
Then the falcon saw it—the old castle wall. Stone scarred by time, battered by centuries, still standing.
“There!” she cried.
“It will crumble!” the kite shouted back.
“No,” the falcon answered, suddenly remembering the words she once mocked. Worse storms have come and gone, and still the cliffs stand strong.
They reached the wall and tucked themselves into narrow divots between the stones. Instantly, the wind softened. The storm passed around them, not through them. For the first time that night, they were safe.
When the storm finally broke, the kite asked quietly how the falcon had known.
“This wall has stood for hundreds of years,” the falcon said. “It has survived worse than one storm. Just like the cliffs I left.”
Homesickness washed over her then, heavy and undeniable. She had chased comfort without understanding strength. She had rejected wisdom without testing it.
As the sun rose, she took flight once more—this time toward the cliffs, toward the home that had been waiting all along.