Just Passing Through

One of the marvels of the autumn season is the migration.  Birds and some butterflies.  The idea of the passing over our heads at night was renewed for me by David's poem below.

After I read through it aloud (as poems should be always read aloud) I paused and thought a bit.  And then I read it again slower.  "Passing through"...yes...aren't we all.  

Invisible Vistors

By David Budbill

All through August and September

   thousands, maybe

tens of thousands, of feathered

   creatures pass through

this place and I almost never see

   a single one.  The fall

wood warbler migration goes by here

   every year, all of them,

myriad species, all looking sort of like

   each other, yellow, brown, gray,

all muted versions of their summer selves,

   almost indistinguishable

from each other, at least to me, although

   definitely not to each other,

all flying by, mostly at night, calling to each

  other as they go to keep

the flock together, saying: chip, zeet,

  buzz, smack, zip, squeak--

  those 

sounds reassuring that we are

  all here together and

heading south, all of us just passing

  through, just passing

through, just passing through, just

  passing through.