Migratory

Young blackbirds

strengthening their wings

above mowed nests,

practicing to go —

so soon, I think,

flightless and solitary,

reading old poets,

their thoughts unspooling

with death before them,

feeling how it feels,

strengthening my wings.


Butternuts are falling

in their husks, and soon enough

I'll smell the corn in tassel —

feeling how it feels,

solitary, not flightless.