Artemisia is the queen of the migration; where she leads, her swarm will follow.

But hers is a treacherous path, for though she urges her kin to show restraint, their hungers are manifold, and their sheer biomass blots out the sun.

Her trajectory must be perfect, her estimations of regrowth and timing exquisite, to maintain the tremulous balance between empty bellies and total ecological devastation.

But as the swarm grows, she knows the limits of her predictive capabilities.

As her offspring raze coastal vineyards she brings her firstborn together and begs them listen. She chooses her successor, anoints them with her long tongue, and sets them above their half of the swarm.

Then she tears her people in half, and takes flight across the briny depths.

Artemisia will never return, but perhaps she has bought the world time to regrow.