Tonight, as we sleep, birds migrate overhead. Call in the darkness.
Navigate by stars, by the earth’s magnetic field.

Green heron. Virginia rail. Hermit thrush,
over New England hardwoods, black billed cuckoos. Once,

we kayaked through mangroves, moonless, towards a bioluminescent bay,
blindly dependent upon the stern of the boat ahead. The night silenced us.

I imagined creatures slipping into the water beside us,
unwinding off a branch above.

I could never stand still in darkness and listen to a star-by-star navigation,
content myself with the journey instead of the arrival.

This morning, outside the bedroom window, the first oriole
of the season touches down.

I don’t have it in me. To find my way without fear.