What birds know

They don't explain themselves.

They don't say: I am leaving now,

and here is why,

and I'll be back in spring.

They just lift.

Turn once into the wind

to test the direction,

then go.

I have been watching them

from the kitchen window

all autumn.

The way they gather first,

sitting in the oak

like punctuation marks

on a sentence

about to end.

Then one goes.

Then several.

Then the tree is empty

and the sky has swallowed them.

I keep trying to learn this.

The part before the lifting:

when you know it's time

and you don't argue.

When you fold yourself

into what's coming

instead of holding onto

the branch you're on.

I've been practicing.

I stand at the door sometimes

with my coat already on

and I stay there a moment.

I feel the outside air.

I feel the way it pulls.

I notice whether I want to go

or whether I just think I should.

Birds don't have this problem.

They have hollow bones

and no opinions

about their own leaving.

I have both.

I'm working on the bones.