Of course it’s trite

On this clear day

With a light breeze

Bluebirds fly left to right

Across the road

To the pasture fence

Then South

As the season here turns

Toward darkness

 

But for now

The sun is out

I have an hour

To finish this walk

Through Sunday morning

Returning home

To the life left to me

A migration in itself

Toward light

As long as I

Can make it last