Orientation
The marsh softens and
exhales
under humming wings.
Bright throated tundra swans
aim like arrows —
intrepid,
true,
each feathered compass pointing
home.
This is all it takes,
the returning.
Even in the grey drape of your own
shores,
a stretching,
a lifting
has begun.
The air fills with swans,
rings with cries
of recognition.
Shaken free, your own call rises
affirming,
resolute,
daring you to follow.
Aligned,
your course
is a wild, winged current,
a bearing
lit
from within.
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