Migrations

The dark rises early
In the dying breath of October.
The garden is now quietly
Resting its season of labor.   
It will vanish and reappear,
Giving birth from the miracle of seed and water,
hoe and spade,
As it has always done.

The Purple Martins and Hummingbirds have left,
Hearing a distant song in the wind,
an ancestral voice of wisdom,
To leave the short twilight of fall
And follow the wide sails
Of the valley south.
Watching us below
dancing like souls on the water.

They will also, return,
Thru a light of remembrance.
To nest,
And feed their fledglings,
From this wealth of land and food,
When the leaves return,
As if they too have heard,
The whippoorwill from the
Dark behind the Oaks
In the early light of morning.