For three days toward the end of September,
Crack open your window sometime at night, and
Then listen if you can remember.
Flocks hidden by cloud in the starless skies.
Only the clamor of high yelping cries
Reveals the swift whitefronts in far-coursing flight, and
If you miss them, the next week they’re gone.
From Gulf Coast marshes white flocks now ascend with
Black wingtips in motion. Loud vees assemble,
Surge northward across thawing land, with
Their way bending left at the Arctic coast,
Drawn by the memories, bright in their host,
Of nests and soft grasses, the island of Wrangel.
Chanting one to the other, course on.
