migrating
There isn't much here
for me any more
just seagulls, sullen,
that mutter soft curses
and watching gray surf 
toss restless in sand 
that huddles in clumps
by my feet,
a wind that scratches 
cold nails 
in my face day by day,
and I'm tired 
of rain-dreary skies
and of watching 
the sea oats wilt slowly
without any sound.
Is it time 
to be checking my wings?
time to spend time with this cloudcovered sky?
time to remember where south is
time for a silent goodbye
time to migrate?
Jon Bohrn (1998)

 

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