Migration Poems…

Driving west
on a black road,
top down, and the wind
tousling the gray,
I let the radio
thunder Siegfried?s death
and funeral music.
Suddenly I am aware
my emotions are all wrong.
The autumn colours
crackle overhead,
and in the open blue
some geese in haggard Vs
are forging south,
but though this is Maine
and the world is slipping
into dark and cold,
just for now I am
revving into orange flame,
a hero?s afterglow.

Richard Foerster