Migration
Outside the window, the hawk sits
wing feathers rising and falling in a breeze
he has not answered the goose’s singular cry
south—south!
The Japanese maple has lost its leaves
to the shortening of the day’s light
and fatal wind gusts blowing in cold and brisk
always from the north.
The oaks in the back of the neighborhood
are black with starlings—fluttering and calling
they greet the dim dawn
rising in the east.
Here in this space, the windy chaos
finds a home bringing its restlessness
creeping under doors and windows
calling me west.
The compass points are laid out
a dream mosaic of past and future
cornerstones of journeys lost and gained
where to from here?
Migration is in my bloodline—
ocean crossings and westward expansion
my people are the ones with walking shoes
going everywhere but here.
Pamela Olson, 11/30/09
For One Single Impression’s prompt,
“migration”.
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