.

"they`re coming, they`re coming",
she beams through melancholic hope,
one hundred million strong, these
great blue days, September, so
many airborne migrants bouncing
on the wind, mixing monarch-orange
skies, a sparkling lake and sun
that burns cool air on sleeveless
skin, tree-deep green contained in
shadows on the lawn and wing-ed
lives that seed Sierra Madres drives,
tracking shores inside a quality
of light that begs for change,
an interloping grebe amidst the
geese, its dips and dives, then
her sighs: "the grebes are back
but not for long", and his firm
words, "this, is it, this now,
and now is all you have"