Willow Island Spring

As I press through fence and fencepost,
I hear flutes by thrushes,
rhythmic buzzing of warblers.

On marshbound spit of high ground,
In wispy windblown light,
I witness this procession of feathery magic;

To earn a living, provide for a family,
Nothing is made of flying from
Canada to Ecuador and back again.

All the while I know they're coming,
I appear each spring on the coast
With ageless certainty --
Like kingbird and swift.

I'm here to see the lava flow
Northward to couple for the
Good of all -- for the chromed
Glory of us all.

© 1996 David J. L'Hoste

             Poetry             inter alia