Burrow

If I had a burrow

I would crawl into it

Make a bed of soft moss

Distraction

I was on my way to my studio

When dust bunnies began biting my ankles

Mold in the bathroom started to whine

Sensitive

You are too sensitive

My mother says to my 10 year-old-self

I look at her quizzically, confused.

Return

When I  opened the door

It was like revisiting a book I had set aside

Trying to remember the plot and the main character,

Myself, and my part in the story

Departure

It all started with an idea 

manifesting

to a penciled entry on my calendar

Later changing to ink.

As the date drew closer and closer

Loose ends started appearing everywhere

Coming out of crevices

I didn’t know existed.

First Migration

 FIRST MIGRATION

A sliver of a moon

Shimmered off my left shoulder

As we pumped our wings

Rhythmically, silently

Through the darkness of the frigid night.

ON THE WAY

“Are we almost there yet?”

I whined to my parents as we motored down seemingly endless highways

punctuated with Burma-Shave signs,

Jumbo Orange stands and other odd roadside attractions.

We traveled to the pace of a ’56 Chevy Station wagon

two-toned Red & White