Feel the Pulse

Eight fifteen. Sunday morning. Window open for fresh air overnight. Had to take the air conditioner out of the kitchen window yesterday. Downstairs just too cold now in the early morning.

Outside a robin clucks from a nearby tree branch. Tree half empty of its leaves. Raked them to the curb yesterday after our shop for groceries.

The robin is telling us, "I'm about to leave. Had another good look at those travel magazines flaunting North Carolina and blossoms and beaches. You can keep your Canadian winter. Stinging winds. Slush underfoot. Frozen lawns devoid of worms. I'm outta here."

A few nights ago, gazing skyward at a partial harvest moon, I saw the fluttering "V". Heard almost simultaneously the faraway honkings of migration. Canada Geese, underbellies partially illumined by the city lights beneath. Practice traveling in skein formation.

Another winter about to be encountered. But then it has its own delights to a Canuck such as I.

See the poem previously posted at the following:


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