The Great Migration

Waiting for the Return Migration 




With chains of polished steel, they wait.

A radio in the distance, the muffled sound of laughing children,

quiet conversation of daughter and grandmother still occupy the space.

The moment came like an afternoon shower, out of nowhere, and unannounced.

One by one, launching from the swinging pendulum,

a ball of baby fat, wrapped in holey blue jeans, fueled by a free range curiosity, following a course set in motion long before they were born.

The Great Migration to futures unknown has begun.

Red ink falls on wet, white paper, at first scarlet, but leaving only pink

as curiosity pulls each molecule to the edge of it's universe,

and as the ink, so the children.

And you reckon, what of mother and grandmother?

One became the other and the other became an Angel,

And the migration goes on.

bobb





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