Wednesday, August 30, 2017

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.

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