Migration
The wild turkeys disappeared
just before Thanksgiving.
But the flickers are back. I haven’t seen
the phoebe since last summer.
The nesting hawk is gone.
Searching through the cupboard
for a ladle, I find
a rolling pin that wasn’t mine.
I wonder if the former
lady of the house baked pumpkin pie.
She didn’t leave so much
as her reflection
in a mirror, on a window pane.
We live like birds here
in our seasons.
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