The Journey [Passing Through Vermont]

There’s a moving afoot
on myriad wings,
southward.

There’s a miracle abroad,
scraps of paper things
orange and black,
leaves in the wind,
this way and that;
on zigzag course,
impossibly, right on track.

So many leagues to go
before the colors fade
and winter cold invades.

Do they fly at night
under hovering stars,
and risk an owl
or bat attack?

How do they know which way to go?
How many hours on ultra-light wings
before they come to rest?

Monarch, to thee I bow
and then to kneel,
and wish safe passage
on autumn’s restless wheel.

 

                            David Parkinson
                            September 2006