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.