Tuesday, March 29, 2016

migration

we are at the lip of the granite shelf
with strings tied fingers to wings,
the buffleheads rising and pulling,
the mallards somewhat slipping in.

spring and they've come back,
orchestrating deftly to their niches,
skipping along, to still on black water
for one beat, two, until they push north again.

the children are twelve and ten,
glamoured yet beside their adults,
about to, beyond this simple delight,
any minute - snap their strings.