The poet watches the arrival of flocks of birds from the north and imagines . . .

In the north, the birds begin to twiter
"Leaves are gone. Looks like snow."
"Yes, time to head south."
"So long, Jay and Chickadee. Nature willing, we will see you in the spring."
"Finally leaving? The gease flew days ago."
"Had to wait for the kids to join us. First time for them, you know."
"May a fair wind blow behind you.


Ones and twos become fours and eights on the wires
Growing expotentially
Yet small in number compared to what will be

Humans would require days to pack
Road maps and directions for such a trip
But the birds know withough knowing
Perhaps they have more faith

A raucous chorus rises at the winter convention grounds
Small groups flit from tree to tree
Alighting, twittering, flying off to another group

"Cheerio, glad you made it. Good flight?"
"Yes, only one bad storm. You must meet our newest. Junior, flit over here."
"Fine coloring, Just like . . . Where's your grandpa?"
"Oh, he had an accident. Eyesight failing, you know. Flew straight into a window."
"Terribly sorry."
"Thank you. But Grandma made it. She's resting in the next tree."

Their reports of joys and sorrows permeate the air
This watcher sighs, envies their freedom
Since evolving from the hunter-gatherer stage
Into something called civilization
We watchers are tied to one place by the invention of income
And must wait until retirement
To become migratory creatures
Enjoying the best weather year round.