In Our Nature

The first snow put a cover on your tracks,

and, where I go from here, I do not know.

For days, I judged the gap by parallax,

proceeding straight as you went to and fro,

and yet, the distance greatened, to my shock.

You crossed the south horizon, and I knew

your wing was beating to be with its flock.

The wind had pushed you back, and so you flew.

I’ve often seen the little birds take wing

in winter, same direction, flap away

to greener climes, careening as they sing,

“Depart!” they tell this cobalt, icy jay.

Each fall I watch them leave, each spring return.

The blue jay nests; the robin red-breast yearns.