Migratory Birds Going Home to Africa
The radio was shouting at you, pleading with you...
Vaguely orange with offerings of brown,
such a rusted sky -
vapor-trails like Nuada's veins.
On the radio tonight I pretend it's Carl Corcoran
whom I've missed like an Uncle gone to war.
Carl plays Heartland Rock, Carl plays Afrobeat,
I remind myself every April, as this requiem is due-
about now - all these birds who fly southerly,
marmalade-burned sundown, grass still brown.
It's five inches-high at our crossroads -
three local streams meeting like Uncles returned from war,
and I smell the farm and primary river
they flow to, sometimes - summer maybe, but usually April,
birds' whooshing chatter that plays Heartland Rock
on the radio, now that Africa is leaving.
Hey there Carl, tell me
if anyone is listening anymore,
on a transistor radio in a tent, something orange flashes overhead…?