Like small birds in shifting
constellations they stream north.
They know what future—black ice
and whiteouts—awaits, but their time’s
run out. They will tuck their heads
under their wings amid
frosted dark green boughs.
They will await the crocus.
 
Others head south, seduced
by tales of stark white sands,
cloudless days and a full moon glimpsed
through fronds. They marvel at shrinking
snow and climbing temperatures.
The palm tree is their totem.


© by CJ Muchhala.
Used with the author's permission.