Migration
When they arrived
I heard the haunting
cries long before
I ever saw them in flight.
Year after year.
When they arrived
a great joy flooded my
body and I was
lifted to the sky –
Joining in the celebration.
When they arrived
Some stayed
for winter, and
I was filled with a strange
Peace I could not define.
When they arrived
some slept nearby
rising up
from grain fields,
a drop of blood
on their heads,
long graceful necks,
black legs dangling,
glorious
outstretched wings
lifting sturdy bodies
skyward, startling
riffles and river waters
that kept them
safe from coyotes
at night.
When they arrived
a collective call
and something else
I could not name
tore open my heart.
When they arrived
That last year
with my life
gone so strange
and cold,
estranged,
I had lost direction,
Yet found kinship
among them.
After they arrived
I was always listening.
Each predawn
before
torturous winds
could steal
their cries
I walked into
‘first light’
arching my neck
backwards
to glimpse
sacred flight.
After they arrived
I loved
them with eyes
stung with tears
lacking understanding
but feeling
a holy force
of such monumental proportion
it severed all thought.
My body sang.
Only presence mattered.
On and on the dance went
until one day
in early February
one crane
climbed into
the sky
overhead
circling,
brring
goodbye.
Others followed
and all that month
they orchestrated a
communal gathering.
Once sky born
they soared north
the moment the sun
rose high enough
to warm them.
“Don’t go” a lost child cried.
We loved them so.
Bereft, I was left
not knowing what
was lost
beyond the Sacred Voices
that haunted the sky.
My skin shrunk
tighter and tighter
against fragile bone.
I could barely stand
the empty blue dome,
a moon that never slept.
I followed
them in my mind.
They headed north,
east and west
Joyous reunions
as migrating kin
met at dusk –
at a fly down.
Resting ,
rising at dawn
to sail through the clouds.
Stormy weather
was always a threat –
gunshots too.
Some flights
took them as far as Siberia
to find
nesting areas
hidden in cattails.
Once relaxed and fed
maybe the two
who mated for life
could raise one
chick to adolescence.
Last year only three
small groups
stayed.
The season
was short.
Yet they filled the sky
with their calls
as I walked into
gray, scarlet, bruised
purple, blue dawn
blessed by a Grace
that preceded sight
of the small community
brrrring overhead.
I wondered then
who they really were.
These ancient ones
who soared far east
to reach the
northeastern tip
of the country
I come from…
For twenty springs
small groups
touched down
in secret,
danced and bred,
spent several months –
most of the year
in the lush green mountain
lowlands.
Almost no one knew.
Last year
when they left winter behind
I followed.
Voices rose up
from the ground
to guide me.
I listened for messages
beneath sound.
Finding direction at last
I surrendered,
fearing nothing more
than not being able
to join them
in the North Country
that called
me Home.
(Meet Mago Contributor) Sara Wright