Seeking Origins

A poem.

By Laura Booth.
Photograph by George Eade.

As banders, huddled in our little dens
We watch and whisper, urging, always, 'Patience! –
You cannot hurry these in their migrations.'
We hush and wait for them, our ancient cousins
With whom we once shared languages, religions
Since lost; but not yet lost are the sensations:
Blood, and keratin, vocalizations
Sharper than the air, with less forgiveness.

So when they break from their autumnal flight
To stoop into the circle of our arms,
I pause and wonder – do they feel alone?
Hewn as they are of history and bone?
The flat embrace of sky, so cold and bright
Would leave me chilled, but here I find them warm.