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.