The Sound of Frost

lots of chirping—Florida doesn’t frost

nor does it bite.

The sound is the chorus of migration.

A song of wanderlust.

I wonder where they’ve been,

or where they’re heading.

Feathers drifting from northern seas,

or weary from forests thick with timber.

Does the gulf call to their restless beaks?

Our trees turn brown,

palms stand steadfast.

And when the cold finally arrives,

it’s never long enough for me to

zip my coat,

welcoming it like an old friend.

The crisp air wraps around my shoulders,

reminding me of distant places

I’ve never been,

and home I never truly leave.