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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.
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CJ Muchhala lives in Shorewood,Wisconsin near Lake Michigan, but maintains a getaway on the Wisconsin River. Her poetry, fiction, and children's stories have been published in a variety of online and print journals, anthologies, and art/poetry exhibits. When she's not writing, CJ says she enjoys gardening "using the 'benign neglect theory," and baking bread "following the 5-minute method."
 
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barbsteff:
I pesume the birds know where they are to go. Nice poem and contrast.
Posted 11/03/2019 05:38 PM
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CamilleBalla:
Shrinking snow. The palm tree is their totem. Good poem.
Posted 11/02/2019 03:30 PM
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milesss:
i too await the crocus...
Posted 11/02/2019 09:51 AM
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cork:
I saw seven Canada geese in v formation flying south out of Wyoming last week.
Posted 11/02/2019 09:35 AM
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