Where are you now? Here
is the obvious answer.
But where? A brown body
with ragged wings rests
in the fork of a branch.
It won’t stay. Immigrant,
diaspore, forever
arriving or departing
on the shore of mixed
expectations. When
does its permit expire?
Intently, from within
the window which holds
my own countable hours,
I watch for cues,
for turns toward more
hospitable weather:
hedging time until
renewal of the lease,
until some wind-
fall rearranges
calculations on the slate.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
I love “diaspore”!