Tumbling south, swifts and swallows blur the sky
with their numbers; geese wedge their sonorous way
toward longer days before the first frost falls,
each driven or led by a urge sensed
and accepted beyond our comprehension.
But the heron overhead, alone except
for the patch of dawn it carries on its back,
decides each day which pond or beaver bog,
which river bank to haunt–a compass rose
of courses to choose from with each sunrise,
and no flock to follow, or shift in seasons
to shoulder this daily decision we share–
necessity’s mundane miracle
of industry and resolution.