Point of Migration

Morning mist blooms in a murmuration

that swoops between pastures seen from afar

and folds in its own fickle furation

both passing and ent'ring the window ajar.

I can barely fathom the fog's flirtation

for those who flock cannot see where they are

until I watch you break through the flocculation -

a morning fog broke by my morning star.

And the rays catch a golden elation

that glitters and dances like those birds alar

and having found the point of migration

we sail off into the sunset cinnabar.

No longer concerned by the follies of mist

but welcoming warmth where our wings have kissed.