The smell of green is on the air,
The south wind stirs the smell of mud.
Across the sky they wing their way,
They race to marshes far in the north.
“Hail! Hail!” they chant in formation,
They call out to the Creator, “Hail!”
They journey by mysterious paths,
Guided by instincts ages old.
From far below we watch their wedge in the sky;
They need not our rails and roads.
We scurry about, to and fro,
While they sail away on rivers of wind.
We hear them crying, “Hail! Hail!”
Their joyous journey impelled with praises.
The awakening earth murmurs with snowmelt,
The rising sun breaks the frost.
We watch them journey to their northern home,
We hear them chanting, “Hail! Hail!”
Paul Beltman
02/08/2005