The morning air
feels warm for March,
with fog like spun cotton
or a child's candy floss.
Feeling surrounded in a
dark muffled world.
The once frozen
rooftop has been melting
all night and drips in a
monotonous way. But other
wise the air is stagnant and still.
The silence hums in your ears.
High above the
clouds and fog you hear a
vague muffled sound. You
can barely decipher the
distant voices that are
growing in the dark.
I hear the cries of
seagulls singing as they
circle towards a distant sea.
Like the laughter and calling
of far away spirits, spinning
wildly in the morning dark.
Then the familiar
calling of migrant geese,
all talking at the same time.
Discussing the best route to
travel home, or if they should
stop somewhere to eat.
My heartbeat quickens
as the regal sound of trumpeters
pierce through the fog.
I cannot see their outstretched
necks, but I imagine them
like ghosts in the night.
An ancient rattle
of squawks and cries rises
up from a far distant dream.
The unsettling songs of
the sandhill cranes echo
lost across the plain.
These are not just
apparitions that I conjured
up in my imaginative mind.
They are the sounds
of nature's passing,
its sweet migration song.
Become aware in
the morning darkness.
Listening with your mind and
ears. The migration song is
about to begin. There is so
much more to hear.
The End
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