by Belle Schmidt
There is no traffic jam in the sky
when you spread your wings and fly
south along a boundless,
In undulating V-formation
unerringly you cross the nation,
wings waving to people far below.
Day after day,
like a precision drill team,
sun catching your feathers’ gleam,
in and out you weave and waver;
but never stray.
Your hoarse honking, its purpose clear,
although strident to our ear,
conveys to the flock aloft;
there’s no delay.
Guided along by an unseen force,
you follow an instinctive course,
and make us beneficiaries
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