Enkatah had been following the same flock for months now; this was her third year on the road. Just her and her tools, the sky and the birds, whichever birds she chose. Every year, there were more people doing this, living nomadically, following migrating animals. Weather was severe and always changing. The patterns were predictable, to a point. And for people living on the ground, the birds were a better bet. More reliable. Even if she lost sight of them, the old landmarks were still there, rhythms recognizable beneath the surface of the earth. In the worst case, the ground would tell her where to go. This cycle was nearly over; just a few days more. A great number of traveling species would converge then, creating an occasion to choose a new flock. She’d decided already she would follow the cranes. 

She was with a group of starlings and presently, they were more a chatter than a murmur. Their movements and calls were sharp and agitated. She’d been following them for four months. Enkatah watched through her binoculars as the birds alighted on a mountaintop — a mesa, flat and rocky — a little way ahead. An island crept into view, backlit by the sunset as it emerged from behind the hill. She waited, to see what the birds would do.

The island was enormous, a mountain in itself, hanging like a moon in the lower atmosphere. A clod of dirt clawed from the earth and held aloft. Its base was brown and grey, a mottled collection of soil and magnetic rock. Her eyes were on the birds as another form came into view. Tufts of high grass, long blades and wildflowers a lush haze in the background. She turned a dial, zoomed out, and the city sprouted from the ground there. Buildings, a muted assembly of round beige stones, all the different colors of a mourning dove. Closer to the center the buildings were taller, mirroring the way the underside tapered lazily inward. Veins of light, barely visible through the rock, just a soft yellow striation. A stationary spinning top, floating through the sky.

There were still several of these — floating cities — though the exact number was inconclusive. People on the ground had little knowledge of them; there was simply no way to verify. But there was conjecture, several bits of it: The islands were resource dense. Any infrastructure that existed did so to serve them in some way. The people there were comfortable; they did not need new neighbors. The insides were the same mix of dirt and stone that was visible from the ground. The insides were made of liquified gold. The cities were abandoned.

More was unknown. How thick were the crusts, how big were the cores, and how long have they existed. All of the mechanics. There were precious few facts. Each seemed to be leashed to a body of fresh water, and travelled along or around it. Each island had its own magnetic field, similar to the planet’s. A smaller stronger field of electricity protected each city, an invisible orb that surrounded the surface, the buildings, and most of the underneath. No one there needed anything from anyone on the ground.

Empty seed pods rattled in the quickening breeze, alongside the inescapable drone of the cicadas. That smell, of flowers growing fragrant under barometric pressure, the scent condensed under the weight of the storm. Monsoon, she could taste it. A rumbling came from the flock as they sensed it as well. The sky darkened behind her, the air thinning, and she heard the storm growl lowly, approaching steadily from the horizon. She heard the clouds bellowing. These torrential moments were a highlight of the season for her. They provided water, power, and a break from the monotony; a reprieve from the raw heat. Wind whistled past her ear, particles of rock and sand stung her skin as they whipped through the air. Up her nose. The flock took off, as one blurry, gesticulating creature. Readying for flight, she thought. But they stayed, hovering above the mesa. They were outside of the storm. Enkatah reconfigured her binoculars. Flipped switches, pressed buttons, enabled the ‘metoric functions that allowed her to travel along the device’s line of sight. Like traversing a zip-line, but she had to use her feet. She set one eyepiece on her destination and used the other to gauge the distance between her and the birds. She refocused, more deliberate, to identify the patch of ground where she’d be landing. Satisfied, she adjusted a dial, increased the tension, and collapsed the necessary wave. 

A few minutes later she was with her starlings. It seemed, from her position on the mesa, that the sky had been restraining itself. Holding back, back, back, and now it couldn’t for a second longer. The sky cracked. Sound-waves and water condensing, lightning and rain striking at the ground. The swiftness of the downpour and the intensity of the haze confirmed what she’d assumed in the moment. If she’d stayed there and tried to harvest energy from the lightning strike, she would probably be dead.

By the time she reached the bottom of the mountain it was night. Her sweat prickled as it evaporated from her skin. A buzz. A different pitch than the cicadas, and lower to the ground. Artificial. The insipid drone of sodium lights, the grumble of a generator. There was a village here, perhaps a whole settlement. She followed the noise. 

Enkatah had been following the same flock for months now; this was her third year on the road. Just her and her tools, the sky and the birds, whichever birds she chose. Every year, there were more people doing this, living nomadically, following migrating animals. Weather was severe and always changing. The patterns were predictable, to a point. And for people living on the ground, the birds were a better bet. More reliable. Even if she lost sight of them, the old landmarks were still there, rhythms recognizable beneath the surface of the earth. In the worst case, the ground would tell her where to go. This cycle was nearly over; just a few days more. A great number of traveling species would converge then, creating an occasion to choose a new flock. She’d decided already she would follow the cranes. 

She was with a group of starlings and presently, they were more a chatter than a murmur. Their movements and calls were sharp and agitated. She’d been following them for four months. Enkatah watched through her binoculars as the birds alighted on a mountaintop — a mesa, flat and rocky — a little way ahead. An island crept into view, backlit by the sunset as it emerged from behind the hill. She waited, to see what the birds would do.

The island was enormous, a mountain in itself, hanging like a moon in the lower atmosphere. A clod of dirt clawed from the earth and held aloft. Its base was brown and grey, a mottled collection of soil and magnetic rock. Her eyes were on the birds as another form came into view. Tufts of high grass, long blades and wildflowers a lush haze in the background. She turned a dial, zoomed out, and the city sprouted from the ground there. Buildings, a muted assembly of round beige stones, all the different colors of a mourning dove. Closer to the center the buildings were taller, mirroring the way the underside tapered lazily inward. Veins of light, barely visible through the rock, just a soft yellow striation. A stationary spinning top, floating through the sky.

There were still several of these — floating cities — though the exact number was inconclusive. People on the ground had little knowledge of them; there was simply no way to verify. But there was conjecture, several bits of it: The islands were resource dense. Any infrastructure that existed did so to serve them in some way. The people there were comfortable; they did not need new neighbors. The insides were the same mix of dirt and stone that was visible from the ground. The insides were made of liquified gold. The cities were abandoned.

More was unknown. How thick were the crusts, how big were the cores, and how long have they existed. All of the mechanics. There were precious few facts. Each seemed to be leashed to a body of fresh water, and travelled along or around it. Each island had its own magnetic field, similar to the planet’s. A smaller stronger field of electricity protected each city, an invisible orb that surrounded the surface, the buildings, and most of the underneath. No one there needed anything from anyone on the ground.

Empty seed pods rattled in the quickening breeze, alongside the inescapable drone of the cicadas. That smell, of flowers growing fragrant under barometric pressure, the scent condensed under the weight of the storm. Monsoon, she could taste it. A rumbling came from the flock as they sensed it as well. The sky darkened behind her, the air thinning, and she heard the storm growl lowly, approaching steadily from the horizon. She heard the clouds bellowing. These torrential moments were a highlight of the season for her. They provided water, power, and a break from the monotony; a reprieve from the raw heat. Wind whistled past her ear, particles of rock and sand stung her skin as they whipped through the air. Up her nose. The flock took off, as one blurry, gesticulating creature. Readying for flight, she thought. But they stayed, hovering above the mesa. They were outside of the storm. Enkatah reconfigured her binoculars. Flipped switches, pressed buttons, enabled the ‘metoric functions that allowed her to travel along the device’s line of sight. Like traversing a zip-line, but she had to use her feet. She set one eyepiece on her destination and used the other to gauge the distance between her and the birds. She refocused, more deliberate, to identify the patch of ground where she’d be landing. Satisfied, she adjusted a dial, increased the tension, and collapsed the necessary wave. 

A few minutes later she was with her starlings. It seemed, from her position on the mesa, that the sky had been restraining itself. Holding back, back, back, and now it couldn’t for a second longer. The sky cracked. Sound-waves and water condensing, lightning and rain striking at the ground. The swiftness of the downpour and the intensity of the haze confirmed what she’d assumed in the moment. If she’d stayed there and tried to harvest energy from the lightning strike, she would probably be dead.

By the time she reached the bottom of the mountain it was night. Her sweat prickled as it evaporated from her skin. A buzz. A different pitch than the cicadas, and lower to the ground. Artificial. The insipid drone of sodium lights, the grumble of a generator. There was a village here, perhaps a whole settlement. She followed the noise.