Migration
Sandy Feinstein
Low water stops the Susquehanna ferry moored among revealed rocks. An osprey fishes,
skimming the ripples, almost diving. In Florida, they build nests on telephone poles, fly
over Kansas, westerly with the wind, though I’ve never noticed them on the Pacific,
among cormorants crowding northern beaches. Fishing crows with seals in Monterey
or puffins in Alaska maybe, not swimming in the Connecticut River along crew teams
and slave ships or here, in Pennsylvania, between lusher hills. That black sinuous neck
bobbing beyond like the great blue heron, its long neck extended, calling unexpectedly.
I didn’t know it had a voice, until now.