Rosie Garland & Meg Pokrass
Understanding bird migration Irruptive migration The frozen men, they eat me up. I drive to the market and they swarm like autumn wasps, droning how the trees are shivering; how they want my warm honey to take the bite out of the chill. They tell me about ladies who jet to Florida every November and sit on their houseboats drinking wine in the sweet sun. They say I’m better than those prunes. They swear I was made for them and their weather. Honey, you’re hot, they say, following me with their winter eyes. What are you doing on such a cold naughty day? I’m fighting the urge to let one of these lonely warriors in. Frostbitten men with lopsided mouths and needy arms who want to warm their feet on my back like I’m a heater in handy human form. I quit the store before their black ice spreads. The snow finds its way into the vegetable section, into the juice aisle. The sun is a betrayal, it says hello but it doesn’t even thaw my nose and chin.
Vagrant The house glistens. The grass stands in stiff white spikes. Bad ideas roam the back yard, tapping at the window to be let in. I drop the blind and turn the TV up loud. I never saw the point of bird migration until I moved this far north. Now, all I can think about is sun. I even bought a SAD lamp. The shop assistant said it would make me happy, with the knowing smile of someone who counts the days to make the same joke.
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