They huddle along the coast in the wan light of a frigid winter’s morning, peering north for a sign from the scouts that the ice bridge has formed. Supplies are low. Many have taken to burning copies of The Art Of The Deal for warmth. One man is leading an early morning calisthenics session that consists entirely of shouting a single epithet at the top of one’s lungs for as long as possible. Understandably, the air fills with the sound of people screaming the word ‘Trump’ for extended durations. Over. And over. A small group of children play a game of capture the MAGA hat, their parents having hidden the true nature of their flight to the north.
A man stands suddenly and lets out a cry.
“Hark. Yonder. A guy returneth.”
A scout is making his way back across the ice, slowly but with purpose. He reaches the shore and collapses in a heap by the nearest bonfire of books.
“What saith thou, scout? Is the lake frozen, and safe for crossing?”
“Aye. ‘Tis,” the scout answers curtly, clearly fatigued from his efforts. Icicles as long as the list of reasons Donald Trump should never have been elected descend from his beard to the ground. Impatiently he breaks them off.
“Aye,” he repeats, turning to the gathered crowd, “The ice is solid, all the way to Canada. I only came back for my phone charger.”
A shout arises from the 323.09 million souls clustered along the edge of upstate New York, representing the largest migration of humanity the world has ever seen. Everyone begins breaking camp immediately, taking only the essentials. Vitamixes, Amazon Echoes, and 60″ OLED screen televisions are all shouldered onto backs for the long, icy trek. Spare clothes, emergency rations, and snowmobiles are abandoned where they sit, useless in the life that all envision ahead; of watching the CFL while asking Alexa to make you a nutritious poutine smoothy.
“Onward!” The cry goes up, as the biomass of disgruntled Americans shifts as one to begin the last final push to new land. Smiles crease faces for the first time since Nov. 8, 2016. A song is raised in the cold, crisp air. It travels through the disheveled ranks quickly, taken up lustily by man, woman, and child alike. It is Nancy Sinatra’s These Boots Are Made For Walking.
The great migration has begun. Ahead lies the unknowable. Behind, the unthinkable.
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