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Flyway By Ken
Shiovitz A mid-May morning dawns so cool that breath clouds Hang expectant, then slowly vaporize, where soon Hot, audible pants of exhalation will accompany Honored scramble through mixed habitat, In absolute silence, save for a deafening single Lap of waves and song of ten thousand birds. Wrapped in a swarm of flitting feathers, surreal peninsula,
Point Pelee, Ontario, slices southward into Lake Erie, Implores flapping passes from Pelee Island, while siphoning
Weary stragglers, spread wide above white-capped waters, To safety of tree-belted tarmac, just beyond the grayish
ribbon From fish carcasses rotting on sands of the broadening
beach. Bearing the bravado of sculpted models at Malibu, Perching migrants return to Pelee in vibrating flocks, Males in full breeding coloration and aggressiveness, Flaunting strength and song upon exposed tree tips, Fencing, fighting, flying from forest limbs, displaying In a passionate swirl of lust and hate and hope and love. It is the finest hour of Madison Avenue, Full scale advertising in advance, before House building or land purchase, before Territories are reached and secured, before Hidden nests are woven between four stalks of goldenrod, Even before the resting and reading up of old newspapers. Pelee is a number on the face of a clock, a checkpoint in
time, A balance sheet for hours of daylight, for insects
ingested, For the days it takes to complete a journey, the days For searching out home and mate, and reaffirming identity, Days for fattening, and nesting, and raising young, A reminder of why the long dangerous trek is ever
necessary. Some say that Autumn at Pelee is beautiful, but quiet; Absent are the hundreds of bird watchers and
spiritualists.… A few of the observed thousands prepare for the return hop, But they are nearly silent, replenishing energy spent, Last remnants of small groups of drab new hatchlings And unfulfilled parents turning back in hope of renewal. |
