Our first migration is our birth.

From a muffled, velvet place

to blaring sound

and blinding light

we tumble down to earth.

The start of many lives.

Like a cat we change our coat,

wriggle out of childhood,

weather teenage blues.

Growing up is painful,

shedding skin, letting sunlight in,

turning into someone new.

We buzz around like bees. Plant seeds.

Discover different points of view.

We are creatures on the move.

It’s time to spread our wings.

The geese fly north.

Butterflies head south

cross cities, mountains, seas.

There are no borders in the sky.

Painted Ladies glide so high

they leave no trace.

Reach the desert where they die.

Their young complete the trek.

No one asks them why.

Migration changes us.

We wrinkle like a walnut.

Lose pieces of ourselves, unravel

like a blanket full of holes.

There is no turning back.

The landscape too is changed.

We cannot read the signs.

Strangers become angels bearing gifts.

We travel on. Migration is our life.

Our death. We seek another country

where there’s room to breathe,

the air is sweet, a scent of lemon leaves.

A door is open. Someone calls your name.