Migrant winter

Remnants of cotton hold fast to dry stalks,

lifted and let go by the wind,

tattered flags on distant, high mountains

hang with the worry and promise of prayer

The lowness of this country moves wind along,

tall pines on the horizon

flat, Carolina fields

cracked windows and fallen porches

of long-forgotten farmhouses

Overhead

whistling swans,

wings move them along

toward their winterplace

Men gather in cool morning,

blow warm breath into cupped hands

laugh and wait

climbers of ancient mountains

consider the moment

before weight is divided

Guanajuato's traveler

looks up toward cold sky

thinks, has he seen these travelers

over the low desert plain –

once, a younger man

with less to carry

Jennifer Hughes