William Barnhill

A noise barely audible grumbles gently through the air;
From a great height far above the golden canopy it falls.
Growing in intensity the laboring honks precede the flock;
As the flock precedes the coming of the winter spell;
Foretold by strands of icy web;
Holding the early morning captive beneath a breath of ghostly white.
A shrinking circle of water awaits within a glassy frame;
Holding cat tails hostage, entombing the creatures of the mud in a deep sleep;
Until springs blessing can be renewed.
Descending on a silent glide towards the steaming mirror;
Webbed pads break the skies reflection with gush and spray.
Travelers from a distant land renew their earthly bonds.
In near by fields earlier arrivals glean the lost harvest;
Between frozen stony rows dotted with remnants of pumpkin, squash and corn.

Near a distant tree line a small crimson figure patrols for mice;
Along a fence overgrown with briar and wild grape;
Clinging to rusted barbed wire strands, holding gray weathered posts at attention;
Conjuring up visions of soldiers marching home from a lost war.
Chalky spires rise from chimneys;
Spiking above the tree tops of the village.
A lone car coughs and sputters in the distance;
Guernsey's slowly gain the hill side;
Expelling vaporous breath with each laboring step.
On pond and field the visitors are well content;
Resting between their journeys quest;
Though another day will find them far to the south;
For now they wait this time to regain the strength of flight and freedom;
Until a distant primal voice urges them to fly onward to warmer haunts;
Where ice and snow can not extend their frigid grip.
And so the feathered pilgrims make their way;
Through space of air, over lake, river, forest, stream and pond.
Knowing in their deepest instinctive heart that they flee;
Before the cold grasp of the arctic hand;
Hastening the coming of the winter spell.