;
The swallows are sitting on the line;
Their purpose here nearly over.
A pulse, a scent, something calling.
Tiny scraps empowered;
To ride the wind southwards.
I hear their twittering restlessness.
Primordial longing;
Connecting me to the same fever.
What is it we seek with journeying?
Heed the calling to the source:
Or be fearful and die.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Plesae leave feedback and comments. It would be nice to know you visited. Thank you.