Scissor-tailed Flycatchers

They perch on thin lines

while we lumber across the asphalt,

hauling luggage to our West Texas cars.

Small against the sky,

wings folded,

tails compressed.

We don't look up. 

Memories once fit in a shoe box.
Now we drag holes in our duffel bags,
flip our rolling suitcases on the curb,
and hope the picture frames don't break.

No clouds mask the sun.

We won't look up

until a shadow flashes and we absorb
the shade of two forms flitting,

weaving through the dry air,

broadcasting their identity not by their wingspan,

their nobility or their strength,

but by the inverted "V"

and elegance they trail behind them,

doubling their size.

                                 -JM 2008