Migrations
In the meadows
above timberline
little rivers flow
from melting snow
on granite,
looking not unlike
the lights of town.
Only jets fly here
and trains of Canada geese
going home.
Silver wings turned gold
from the days setting sun.
Firing homeward
through low pressure zones,
dancing
with each sweep of wings.
Slipstreaming
in perfect northern flight.
How the nights must linger on
for sleepy honkers and creaking jet liners.
Copyright © 1975 by Roger Patrick Ewing, all rights reserved.
Roger Ewing's Blog 
Hi Roger,
this is very nice! Thank you for sharing.
Thank you Erika! I haven’t felt comfortable sharing this in the past. I’m coming out of my shell in my old age.
I can just picture you sitting there at twilight. Makes ya want to be there! Fabulous imagery and peaceful poetry. Thanks for sharing.~D
Thanks, Deena. Glad you like it.