I've always flown south in the wintertime- fragile, small bird that I am.
I am able to support myself
on wind currents
and glide seemingly effortlessly through the skies,
but I always knew I was outclassed by the cold.
I retreat into the warmest climates I can:
sanctuary in songs,
warmth in silence,
and safety in my slow glide through those months.
Winters get longer and longer like their days;
the darkness overtakes them
faster and faster
until you're living in the dark.
They try to divert the attention away
from that unsettling victory of night's blackness over day in winter
with their neon lights and smiles,
but even the purity of snow cannot combat the coldness those long shadows bring.
I leave for months at a time.
My vacant nest fills with snow in my absence.
It isn't the most productive defense,
but I cannot survive winter's harshness another way.
When I return
my nest is still damp
from the frozen tears of defeated summer.