Migration

Thin skeins of geese pull against the low sky.

This is the season of

          blood in the sunsets.

This is the season

          of long whistling

          embraces of wind.

It is the time of

          lengthening shadows

and thick mists on big waters.

I am listening to the

          wishboning of wings in the cool air

and my blood stirs

          to the pull of a passage

stronger than my own history.

I am thinking of migration today

          my life a pause

          and a gathering of strengths

          and a tensing of muscles

                   and a blind instinct for flight.

I am thinking of the

          raw moment

                   where intent becomes movement

                   where everything is irrevocably changed.

What wild defience in me                               

          knows that it is time for migration?

What servile restraint              

          keeps me here even with the geese

          singing down my bones?

What tips the balance between the two?

Geese do not waste effort

          in cogitation of such matters.

Migration is not a choice.

It's the way geese live.

Absolute choice

          is a trick of consciousness

          taught by the fear

          of losing what we think we are leaving.

Migration is a spiral -

          not a straight line.

There is no leaving

that is not also a returning.

Geese swim the liquid sky.

          The wind laps against me.

Exuberant goose chimes

          jangle the autumn afternoon,

fading to the south,

and in silence I follow.

R.S. Russell

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