Each April they return,
Waypoint of geography and soul.
The sky sparkling alight,
with the fever of their homecoming.
Each September they leave,
Waypoint of geography and soul.
The sky dimming ember,
with the emptiness of their going.
Each point between is like preperation.
Song and Play and Distance,
merging in a melody of self.
Bringing purpose and life
within the explanation of a wingbeat.
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