The migrant’s song
Brings harmony to the peace
As does their body’s warmth
And flapping wings
Reflect the Baltic thaw
And lapping.

This nomadic life
Not merely knows of death
But works its cycle
Signing tracks on marshes
No longer harsh but briskly welcoming
In the languid lead of Spring.

The last call,
Admitting hope and agony,
Will echo until
The falling pillows and blankets
Bury the bed
Where no one now sleeps.