They had expected sunshine.

After all, the brochure—if flamingos had such things—had been very clear: warm breezes, shallow water, the occasional lawn ornament companionship program. Florida had been predictable. Pleasant. Pink-friendly.

But this?

“This is not Florida,” said the taller one, lifting her neck as high as she could while a drift of snow clung stubbornly to her back like a misplaced cloud.

“No,” said the shorter one, staring at the endless white. “This is… betrayal.”

They stood in silence for a moment, their thin metal legs planted in frozen ground, their elegant curves now dusted in frost. Around them, the yard stretched out in shades of white and brown, the grasses stiff with cold, the air sharp and unfamiliar.

“I blame the navigation,” the taller one finally said.

“I blame you,” the other replied. “You said, ‘Follow the wind.’”

“It usually works.”

A small clump of snow slid from the taller flamingo’s back and landed with a soft plop.

They both watched it.

“I hate it,” the shorter one said flatly.

“Yes,” the taller one agreed. “I also hate it.”

Back in Florida, they had stood proudly among palm trees and warm patios, admired for their color, their posture, their undeniable flair. Here, they were two pink exiles in a world that had forgotten how to be warm.

A gust of wind swept across the yard, sending a fine spray of snow against their plastic feathers.

“That’s it,” the shorter one declared. “Next migration, I’m in charge.”

The taller one considered this.

“…Fine,” she said. “But we’re not telling anyone about this.”

Another pause.

“Agreed.”

They stood there, stubborn and slightly ridiculous, waiting out a winter they did not sign up for—two flamingos who had flown too far, landed too wrong, and now had no choice but to endure.

And silently, deeply, completely—

They hated the snow.