Poem-a-Day

Forced to fly lower by unexpected rains
a thousand songbirds passing over the lake

near McCormick Place slap lit windowpanes—
and fall in yellow heaps across the lawn.

In Muncie, Indiana, no one at dawn
hears swelling choruses in the sycamores,

and later, in Louisville, garage doors
open but no birds put on a show

whistling  seebit, seebit,  or whywhywhy 
and hunters in Tennessee, hearing only crows,

stick in their earbuds for the morning lies.
Alabama commuters glimpse no feathers

brightening the woods in the grey weather.
Down at the Texas border no cheerful zreee

encourages the migrants sleeping in tents
or wakes a child to point up with glee,

and the palms in Mexico do not shake and sway
with warblers in their fronds resting a day

for the flight to Guatemala, the final swing
of the songbird migration to their winter place

where Monarch butterflies clap their wings
calling for music in that silent space.