i hear you
throaty warbles on cue
as i step into the cold.
but i have yet to behold
the graceful arc of your neck
and the playful dance of your trek
along the ancient current.
oh sandhill, it’s as if you weren’t
so different from me
floating on the edge of free.
it’s in the not knowing that the heart
wrestles with pain on one side and
joy on the other. not knowing whether
to write or not to write,
to build or not to build
to preach to the captives or to stay
silent. are the birds
full of such angst as they gather
before their great migrations? do they wrestle, too,
with the rumored warmth of the future
and the regrets they leave behind?
or do they just spread their winds and say
the hell with it all. i’m outta here.