Prodigal

Each spring

I learn

the songs of the returning ones

of fair voices filling

once-still air:

single-note bell

of the varied thrush

lilting crisp scale

of American robin

high-pitched waterfall

of ruby-crowned kinglet

ululations

of sandhill crane

making the blood in my veins

rush faster in the necessary cycle.

Woven through are tunes

of the familiars:

chickadee, nuthatch, redpoll, siskin.

Who would I rather be?

One returning,

or one staying?

I cup my ears

toward the breathy trill

of the dark-eyed junco.

To stay

and be taken for granted.

To return

and be regaled for it.

And you?

To have the upturned faces

searching only for you?

Or to be the one all winter

who reminds the sky

of its promise to wings.