Today is the last day of NaPoWriMo/GloPoWriMo 2020! 30 days of poetry. Congratulations to my traveling companions through this journey who stuck with all of this. They tell me it’s really something to write 30 days of poems. I wouldn’t know. It’s just something that I do that is as natural to me as having a meal. Which isn’t to say that I’m that great of a cook or poet. But, that I do keep on saying my something to the universe and hoping it touches someone’s heart and soul.
Today’s optional prompt is “to write a poem about something that returns“. I live in a place that is along the Mississippi Flyway. When I first moved here I learned this was the migratory path for many beautiful birds. Among these is a flock of Sandhill Cranes that is accompanied by the last remnants of a particular type of Whooping Crane. Due to custody battles, one of my dreams has not always been fulfilled but it still remains to make visiting these birds a family tradition for my princesses even as they grow up in front of me into the most amazing young ladies.
On An Ancient Pathway by Michael Doyle Twice yearly for over 2.5 million years Sandhill Cranes come in all their unison calling Right as clockwork they somehow adhere Be it springtime or with Autumn's leaves falling Red foreheads, white cheeks and dark, point bills Fly overhead in their ragged formations of gray Since nearly birth, my daughters have had the thrills Of taking the drive up to Jasper Pulaski for the day Them bundled up as warmly as they can be in Fall Or, running about playing when it comes each Spring It this father's hope that they will always recall All the joy and laughter that this always brings Watching these with somewhat misplaced human pride As these glide in to feed on these semi-sacred grounds Watching as they catch the thermals taking their glide There is something magical there and quite profound It seems savage to know these are the ribeye of the sky When some hunter told me this, I had to look away Otherwise, they might have caught the tears in my eyes And my silent prayer that they would always be a day When some father somewhere took his children for a ride To see the soaring birds plumaged in their best gray And quietly teach them the ways of nature with familial pride That others before had been along in this same way On the way back home, we get dinner at the Whistle Stop It's a pilgrimage of sorts that I hope will never end For the good food and friends made at the Whistle Stop And the memories of thousands of cranes as these descend (c) April 30, 2020 Michael Doyle All Rights Reserved