The Flyway

​
Long ago, when I was almost
grown, my father took me
to a forlorn spot—under a bridge
between two busy roads,
saying nothing of our destination.
We pulled off to the side,
on the soft dirt shoulder.
He pointed up,
into a grey, uncertain sky.

 A river of birds, its edges 
 delineated as if with a ruler, 
 filled the windows, endless
 flapping of wings, like breakers
 on some far-off shore.
 From the ordered ranks
 came mingled honks of Canada Geese,
 the calls of countless songbirds, 
 all of these birds somehow
 going in the same direction, 
 knowing where they needed to be.

We stood there a long time,
wondering if this emptying
of every bird there was
into the elsewhere 
would ever stop. Soon, 
it grew too dark to watch, 
yet the flight continued.

Bound to a cycle of our own, 
we silently got back into the car 
and headed home.