The Migration
A peculiar sight at the river mouth,
A flock of birds flying to the south,
It kind of caught me way off guard,
As I headed to work in my car.
A thick white frost adorned the grass,
As my fowl friends flew on past,
I wandered if they planned to nest,
Muttering thoughts upon frosty breath.
We continued toward the ice blue sky,
'Till I noticed out of the corner of my eye,
Bulging storm clouds behind the hills,
With more toward the sea further still.
My feathered friends proved quite wise.
Settling for freezing cold but dry,
With a howling storm in their backs,
You're better off worse than being in that.
(C) 2016 PJ Bayliss
Copyright © Pj Bayliss | Year Posted 2016
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