Orientation

 

The marsh softens and

exhales 

under humming wings.

Bright throated tundra swans

aim like arrows —

intrepid,

true,

each feathered compass pointing

home.

 

This is all it takes, 

the returning.

Even in the grey drape of your own

shores,

a stretching,

a lifting 

has begun.

 

The air fills with swans,

rings with cries

of recognition.

Shaken free, your own call rises 

affirming,

resolute,

daring you to follow.

Aligned,

your course

is a wild, winged current,

a bearing

lit 

from within.