Migration – ‘a travel journal’ September 3

There are some that dread the end of summer’s more expansive rhythms…but not me.  I reach (all summer I think) toward September.  So with a great exhale, I say ‘Welcome me September’.  I made it.

The air feels different,
full, ripened, like it might drip
if I broke it open with my breath.
It satisfies; I must have been hoping…
Months old mallards join the formation overhead,
withered leaves drift randomly underfoot –
the mustering’s started, a rising up and
a laying down. All contributions
to summer’s completion,
migrating me back
to ordinary days.

© 2016 – Laurel Archer

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