NaPoWriMo 4-1-2017

It is near spring again,
And the treebranches
Spider-leg into thin
Sky,
And the common grackles
Call themselves forth from
Nothing,
From winter,
And bring
The black of their wings
To all the edges of each blue. 

And again.

Where are we going
With our now-thin jackets;
Our unlaboring
Engines

Aligned along the old, old
Evenings,
Their sunsets growing long, long
Again,

A familiar migration?