Are yipping in the heat that finally
Gives in to dusk's respite, and above in
The great dome of heaven another
Jet heads towards Europe, across the
Maritimes, and then the vast Atlantic.
There's little traffic, though,
Here in these skies. Long ago
Someone taught me to read
The angle of ascent, hear
The singular whirs of engines,
Watch the swoop of direction as
Taking off, the pilots
Change the headings, all
Clues to destination.
Now in these days they made
To come in the United States,
This cauldron of unrest and strife,
Fear covering the land like nettles
And neighbor against neighbor, all
Common sense jettisoned to
The uncertainties that heat and dust
And drought and apocalyptic rains call
From the unsettled knit of elements,
And after all, we're imperfect beings,
Which means we should be scared.
Now in these days I make to prepare
The home in the United States
For the ancestors' children's children
Who come because from the homeland
Long ago this is the place that called
To some of them:
Opportunity, love, adventure,
Solace or escape.
And there were those who stayed behind;
I dare say some of these are stories
We may never really know.
And anyway,
What a gift they're bringing,
Our family, from across the roiled Atlantic,
They come because somewhere abroad
This place is beacon still.
They come to bond with us and share
Ourselves.
They come with fresh eyes open,
They come because there still is time
To have some impact
In the slim shallows of what in life is
Unexpected and unknown.
The way it's always been,
The way this story goes.
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