because of Mary Oliver

the geese have moved farther south
always returning home.
their calls no longer fill the
spring air, the lonesome
here we are
here we are
here we go

herald of wind that fills
this desert with
seeds of life and water from other places. leaving
to leave this place dry again.

my heart is migratory, a stray cat
returning some nights.
a warm rhythm filling me
with spring.
flying again



.