For my class
In a book with a green finch on the cover,
I learned all birds move, but not all birds
migrate. What marks this 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 it is time to move. They pick up
their wings and lift into the sky without
a backward glance. 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
the end of their journey is warm and plentiful.
And there they will rest until the next migration.
My friends, be the birds of your souls.