Autumnal equinox, the perch of the last bird

too much to bear, dips the branch into the dusk;

Little by little every day, we see the migrant birds

take away more and more of our Sun.

Migrant birds tread light on every branch,

wary not to drop a stray feather,

or lay an egg of a different colour

than the roosting flock,

or add a straw,

lest it be the one that broke the branch’s back.

They never build their nest,

not even in the grass,

lest it stick out like a sore thumb

or prick the foot trampling upon them.

Migrant birds bate off when no one is watching

the portion of the sky that they are occupying,

careful not to stir any cloud from its slumber.

Spring equinox, the flutter of the first bird

thaws the cold silence, spurring the Sun into action;

Little by little every day, we see the migrant birds

pushing the frontier of illumination further.

Migrant birds tread light on every branch,

for they carry the weight of our rising Sun

and the setting Sun of their lands

as well as the force of the winds therefrom.

They build their nests somewhere,

tucked away in the skies,

deep in the dreamy clouds,

from tender straws of wayward light.