The Ode of Migrations

We are parts of a billion
they keep telling us, I do
not believe. Birds know this
caution, sadness still calls
itself a failure for finding
a home here. This is a small
town, the people have
their off days and re-runs,
the dogs bark contagiously
during the rest and cat naps
are shorter when sirens
disrupt the pleasantries.

The cicada frames noon time
in a halo of hissing to emphasize
the problems of silence,
for example and comparison.

Those are sheets on the fence,
they are full of sin and thicket.
How quickly they dry in summer,
how they neglect time.

Where is this death they talk about?
Will poppies or lilacs revive us all
as they revive themselves so
the wind can distribute our worries?

He isn't awake yet and when I sleep
he is eating and thinking about this
condition where no one goes
anymore. Spiders find a place
in the dark, housekeepers at heart,
one shows up each and every time.

The bird nest up there is ours
for today - even if it is stolen.
Look how well built, it is!

they, the other ones,
those two

checked on it andleft
in shame: adobe, right hand corner -

no eggs or anxiety could hold them
back, they just turned away and flew.