MIGRANT:

Music of old continent´s seasons, shifts & softly changes,

The wind´s melodic crescendos sing in different wild ranges,

They know the time has come, for their new wings turnings,

Feeling it deep within their souls, the ancient call of yearnings.

Migrants, those so solitary, or those in flocks & all fine feathered,

Lift their winged arms to beckon in thermals seasonably weathered,

Up soaring, gliding across God´mullioned, blinking, ever vigilant eye,

Tirelessly over continents, with their presence softly caressing the sky.

Flying through wild storms of rain & snow & over death´s arid drought,

Buffeted & windswept on irked cruel lipped winds of God´s sulky pout,

They blow, they waft & they wend, through states & over lands & nations,

Solitary soul painting loneness in the sky, & others in chevroned formation.

The unforgiving sun blisters their sight & the silky moon eventually changes,

Over cruel terrains, over angry oceans & seas & accusing mountain ranges,

Our feathered ones feel the un-sated hunger, the thirst & constant burning,

But something within their ancient souls fires & starts the excited churning.

Many perish on their journey & many arrive featherless & sorely battered,

Yet, they never question its worth, even though they are totally shattered,

In their new homes they will nest, they will breed; they will fatten up & feed,

 To return from whence they came, when the season´s call once again they heed.