by Laura Klein
. . . a long obedience in the same direction . . .
From the get go, two habitual waders
contradiction of sandpipers
called, alongside their tribe, toward
change. Streamlined for yonder,
amid headlong proximity, hourly,
they tilt their wings, drafting off
one another’s drive. And wit . . .
for here and there, crow-berried
liquid confetti begets
future take-out. Ah, migration,
you muster the hollow-bones version
of faith, braving the mileage of risk,
the nightly encampment of want.
How trusting, this God who loves birds.
And how travelworn, the collapsible
tents of their bodies, enfolding
one beating, intrinsic need: an avian
Canaan, its scent of safety
beckoning all those imbued
with nerve, and a knack for abandon,
and heart to just pick up and go.
Laurie Klein is the author of Where the Sky Opens (Poeima/Cascade). A past winner of the Thomas Merton prize, her work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. She lives in the Pacific Northwest.