Return Journey

One day, often after noon,
the air changes.
We hear them faintly
and stop raking awake the dead lawn,
searching for our car
in the barren parking lot
or just breathing in spring
and raise our heads.

It takes a while
to see them pressed hard
against the new blue, a fine line
drawn forward by an ancient urge,
calling,
calling,
constant clamour of encouragement.

Wings weary from the journey
are refreshed by the scent
of familiar wet lands
and a memory of sweet grass.