Migration

A sudden swirl of gabble, flutter,
    chatter, preen, and cluck
makes my yard into someone
    else’s conversation.
No stone goes unturned, no
    topic unpecked.
Even the dead rabbit I never
    mentioned to the kids
gets flipped and flopped about
    like last week’s gossip.
The children are alarmed,
    then amazed.
Better not to tell them this is me
    twenty years from now,
descending with cronies enroute
    to Florida or Arizona,
pinching the grandkids,
    noting with magpie eye
the looks that pass or don’t pass   
    between husband and wife.
Instead, I say, “It’s the flocking instinct.”
    “Winter’s coming.”
“They feel it in their bones and gather
    before flying south.”
Instinctively, I flex knees and elbows,
    crick my neck to peer
at the sky, continue the old seesaw
    bargain with Time.


Sheryl Slocum
Originally published in the Poets' Calendar, 2006