What the Migratory Birds Know

The godwits leave at dusk, already gone before the eye can hold them — a thread pulled loose from the horizon, unraveling toward a country that exists only in the body's oldest language.

I have stood at windows watching rain convince the glass it is a river. Whatever pulls you back is not the same place twice, but something in the bones that says: still yours.

Even the field remembers where it was touched — the pressed-down grass, the stone turned over once for no reason, the place you stood and did not know you were saying goodbye.

Distance is not absence. The birds carry the coast inside them like a word in a dialect they learned before learning — a sound the throat finds on its own.