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Migration

Because you felt better after the blood test
we drove to downtown
turning down Liberty, we waited
for the pedestrians to cross
above us, birds fluttered between a palmetto
and a palmetto

I said, “cedar waxwings.” “They are busy.”
“That’s how I know who they are.”
They act as if being chased by a big shadow
under the blue, blue sky
as if they intercepted my thought
one by one, on cascading beats, picked

a spot on the branches of a large gum tree
— still a bare tree
their buzzing calls that sound
like an electric shield also ceased
they stayed still, still, still
I counted my heartbeats; how much longer?

The tree was too tall for me to see their colors
and we had to move on
but as I shifted in my seat, I saw
with my mind’s eye: the dashing black
around the eyes, blondish crest, lemon-yellow hemmed tail
and red droplets on their wings, like melted wax

the details are a disclosure —
each body, one ounce of divination
swinging through the spring air
I turn to you and the sun is on your knuckles on the wheel.

About Miho Kinnas

Miho Kinnas is a Japanese poet/translator living in Hilton Head Island, SC. Her books of poems are “Today, Fish Only” (2014) and “Move Over, Bird” (2019) published by Math Paper Press. Her poem “End” was nominated for the 2019 Pushcart Prize by the Belletrist Magazine. She began her study of creative writing in the English language with Writers.com twenty years ago. She holds a MFA in creative writing from the City University of Hong Kong and leads various Haiku/poetry workshops.

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