sparrows bell migrate emerge flutter still stretch slinking memories branches fidgeting crash
The Concourse
“All journeys have secret destinations
of which the traveler is unaware.”
— Martin Buber
There is a sparrow on the concourse.
What can it be thinking?
This is an airport, perhaps it feels it belongs.
◊
People sit near me,
Focussed on the fluttering sign, the flipping letters—
DEPARTED . DELAYED . LANDED
I wonder idly if one crashes, is it just ‘delayed’?
Some fidget, most just scroll.
Some stretch out—relaxed, or bored, or tense.
The honks of passing electric trolleys,
More indifferent than urgent—
Going past with their own agendas.
◊
People pass by me.
Around me. I’m invisible. Observing.
Some stride, full of intention.
Some, travel-weary, trudge.
Are they migrating? Perhaps.
Or returning home.
Others emerge from the opening doors,
Doors we are forbidden to enter,
Searching for familiar faces—
A blank look struggling for recognition
Where what were only memories
Coalesce into laughter and hugs,
Branches returning to the tree.
Others slink out, downcast—
Seeing no-one, expecting no-one.
◊
I watch the fluttering letters search for a word—
“LANDED”. I give a long exhale.
Soon...
◊
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