Migrants

October is the month of restless wings:
Yet when we stop the car and try to see
What southbound birds this autumn colour brings
The little travelers dart from bush to tree,
Or scurry headlong through the withered grass,
Or flit from fence to field so restlessly
We can find no focus for our sluggish glass,
And cannot even guess their pedigree.
And so we laugh, – remembering what he wrote
Of his own thoughts that would not come to rest
On any fence-post long enough to note
The name and nature of the passing guest:
Winged thoughts, half-glimpsed, that vanish all together
Like autumn migrants, leaving not a feather.

W. Gordon Mills

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