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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