The herd gathers here, where the

river running broad, shallow and slow

allows the strongest to cross. Others,

the luckiest, are carried by the

surge. But the weakest flounder and

become easy pickings for hungry carnivores.




There is the place most recently

abandoned. Here where we have landed.

Between, only emptiness on the wing

and storms. We nest, raise chicks,

regather our strength to return, when

there will be here. Here there.




What good exists in warm currents

running counter, always pushing against and

away? Better perhaps to be carried.

I wonder about turning. Being whisked

north to luxuriant tropics. But my

destination is set by stronger imperatives.