Plucked from road side shrubs and pock marked sidewalks
there were years I let feathers guide me
through my own migratory patterns
along the 401, south, and back again
trusting them as talismans because they had once belonged to a body that knew the way
that carried their delicate proteins on
trailing centuries and smoke signals and
would, with some coddling
my own soft spine the route towards
Home is wings tucked into tall grass
the down on an arm that lowers the newspaper when you come in from outdoors
a spring mouth which utters "you're back"
having expected you.