Dim light leaks eerily from city lamps.
As I glance across the fog shrouded lot
I hear the sharp barking
Of ghostly figures high in the fog.
Circling overhead they call to the night:
“We are Nature’s wandering children
Trained by our parents to flee bitter cold
To return to the warmth of the primordial swamp.
We tried to find our way but we cannot.”
Tails trimmed, wings up they descend.
Down soft they touch, but unexpectedly
They encounter no water cold and dank
Nor are there rustling reeds, no fertile earth.
“Our genes have lied. Our instincts are awry,”
They gasp and stand confused on the tarmac
A gaggle fearfully waiting for the grey of dawn.