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Migration

Contributed by George Kittell

I saw a monarch in the air,

Its resting place I knew not where;

     The wind was of the north and east,

     This moth's cocoon of late released.

 

It flapped its wings and then it sailed,

Born by the breeze, a bug so frail,

     And slowly did it start to fall,

     Then rose with wings of tattersall.

 

Again it tacked the tailing wind,

This butterfly with pinions finned;

     O'er fields and flora still it flew,

     Its resting place I nowhere knew.

 

A favorite moth of russet red,

That's known to migrate, it is said;

     Now autumn and its sails are set

     For a thousand years it yearly gets.

 

As quickly as it came it went --

By flapping, soaring somewhere bent;

     Its resting place I knew not where,

     Just glad to see it in the air.

 

                                   G. Kittell

                                  Sep 2016

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