Exodus
March: these three
song sparrows
head in a line–
wing to wing
and keeping their counsel–
toward the leafless hills,
which themselves follow
one another
into the distance.
Trailing this delicate
gray exodus,
I hear the wind
for an instant
unburdened by
trucks or voices.
Only the mist
from my own lungs
offers the necessary
whisper in the silence.
Sparrows far off now,
I watch for others,
praying they’ll sing
me a route I can
thoughtlessly recall.
When you take off, please sing to me. (Credit: Patryk Osmola / National Geographic My Shot / National Geographic Society / Corbis)
Note: This poem originally appeared in slightly different form in Southern Poetry Review (Fall 1991).
A Napper's Companion 
That’s beautiful. But of course you’ve seen my version of poetry… So…
Yeah, but your blog makes people laugh. Have you considered limericks? “There once was a man from Nap-tucket . . . “
Can Spring be far behind? Thanks for the good thoughts and hopes and dreams of a more enjoyable season to come.
Hi, Ray! Hmm. Getting into the single digits this week in these parts. But you’re right, spring can’t be far away. Peace, John
Absolutely beautiful
Gracias, Kerry.