8 

Neil Kelly 

Swift Migration 

I left the concrete via turn lanes, 
the one-way streets, the 

homeless suITering. An overpopulated 
mass transit subway system; a pulsing 
aorta of mortal vestige. 

I hotfooted it like fleeing deer from 
a forest ablaze; mosquitoes absquatulaLing 
oul of rippling waler. The city 

has me sweating more than normal this year. 
A wild Lime. 
Nol the year for lover's luck. 

S Latic covers understanding and 
conversation like moss. 

Peat? 

Nope, just a mossback. 
A backwards pedestrian crossing 
towards tomorrow's flooded basements. 

Beyond the city limits, 
the brisk air and whispers of deceased foliage 
smash my face like a rubber mallet 
against a dent. 

I feel reborn. 

A sparrow, or maybe a finch, 
skims in the wind, dodging hail and 
meteor particles remimscenl of December 
dandruIT on a black sweater. 
The wings brushing bashfully. 

It's to the country setting 
I'm jelling. 

No bike lanes or 
meter readers. 

Just the echoes of silence and 
Lhe smells of hogs and ethanol. 

Art 11