Lost Flight

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.

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