This poem was recently revised, and due to formatting problems has been re-posted out of chronological order.

Migration

Aug 9 2005

In winter

in the highlands of Mexico

a branch breaks,

the weight of butterflies

too much to bear.

Packed so thick

the trees seem wrapped in orange wool,

rippling

with each fitful stroke of wind.

They hang motionless

in cold dry air.

But when the sun breaks through

some flutter-off in flight.

Then more and more

in successive waves

in a great susurration of wings,

majestic columns

ebbing and flowing

in rivers of coloured light.

I wonder if they dream

of wild milkweed

2,000 miles away,

the fields they first took flight.

Such tiny creatures

to be endowed with the secrets

of navigation

and home.

Or if these Monarchs doze

with the sureness of their namesake.

A king

who has imperiously surveyed

his sovereign domain,

pronounced himself pleased

with the affairs of state.