Stranded

She waits and preens herself
by the riverside
rain washes her feathers
as she picks them clean
She waits
for those flown far past to tundra
a chorus of communion
she could not join
laying their eggs amongst the flowers
gold grasses, lichen
She waits
once more to greet their southward return
her moment will come as they land
gliding down like snowfall
white and black surround her
she cries out, joins the mass, disappears
and flies away from winter.

-By the Corbyhawk herself who cares for people who care for birds...