[Poem#10] Migration

For my class

In a book about birds with a green finch
on the cover, I learned that all birds move,
but not all birds migrate. What marks

this particular motion is that it’s seasonal,
annual, repeated at the end of something.
When the wind begins tossing around

recently fallen leaves, the temperature
drops to give the grass a nightly crisp, and
the flowers start to fold in on themselves,

putting their colors away for the winter,
then the birds know in their tiny beings
that it is time to move. They pick up

their wings and lift themselves into the sky,
without a backwards glance. They know
when it is time to move and they do not hesitate.

They simply fly, unafraid. Because though
they have to fight the winter breezes bearing down
on their fragile feathers, they believe that the end

of their journey will be warm and plentiful.
And there they will rest until the next migration.
My friends, be the birds of your souls.

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