It's turned cooler this close to October
and all of the hummingbirds, the Rufous,
the tiny Calliope, even the Black-chinned ones
have chartered flights for warmer climes,
southern getaways as it were - all the way
to Mexico. It's probably my advancing age,
but I sense (or wish) they've gathered up bits
of me like they do nesting material and taken wing,
retracing the route back to where their
hearts began. I envision them musically, like
thousands of precious notes strung out for mile
on end, playing on the breeze as flutes and piccolos
strains of Tchaikovsky's "Sleeping Beauty Waltz".
Or could it be a vague wanderlust resurfacing,
the drifter's instinct I apparently inherited from
my father who once hopped trains, a tendency
I abandoned while still a young man after having
been battered around and wounded emotionally
in my carousing and left totally disheartened.
Whatever the source of the longing I'm feeling now,
it's strange how I miss the continual visits by those
diminutive birds as close and very dear friends,
suddenly having disappeared without word.