This morning air, not as it seems,
elsewhere churning, a false
tranquility.
Loons gather on vanished ponds,
ponds that mirror vanished clouds.
All migrations lead to an empty space
in a sky migrating through itself.
Each new arrival, a belated emergency.
Enter the orphans
carrying their sacks of bedding.
They stand in the road,
wondering where to go.
The naked trees point in all directions.
Their leaves blanket the ground.
One more layer of truth, of soft decay.
Some choices are not choices at all.
Here is where the children
must make their beds.