Ages ago, the rides up north,
Or way down south,
Were long, tiring journeys.
But the stops helped and the sights were serene,
And the breeding grounds waiting for us,
Was a beautiful end to our flight overseas.
Our trips in V-formation or flocks,
Took us through magnificent landmarks,
From soft winter meadows, across teal rivers,
Over the blue seas, through the ever-changing sky- murky to starry to gold,
Where the lush green forests unfold.
Seasons were a part of our trips-
Cold winds were beacons to snow,
And the tells of our nesting trees beginning to shed,
Would remind us of the warmer breeding sites-
On the other part of our planet.
The times have changed, there are no more tells,
The winds change too often, there are no more seasons.
There are no places of our own-
No forests, no meadows, the marshes are all gone.
Now our flights, which have been more than before,
Have no planned routes, and the destinations are unsure.
The colours are all murky and the golds bring no joy,
Since they lead to forest fires more than to the beautiful sky.
Our memory maps and internal compasses,
Are scrambled with man-made structures and signals;
Man has changed our world and our ways-
Our predators who have lost their homes,
Wait at our pitstops for quick respites.
We know of this as we too do the same,
For the prey that are on their own weary flights.
