Migration (for Cathy)

Lyrics
Snow is falling, snagging its points on frayed Surfaces. There's lightning Over Lake Ontario, Erie. In the great central Cities, debt accumulates along baseboards Like hair. Many things were good While they lasted. Long dance halls Of neighbourhoods under the trees The qualified fellow-feeling no less genuine For it. West are silent frozen fields and wheels Of wind. In the north, frost is measured In vertical feet, and you sleep sitting because it hurts Less. It's not winter for long. In April Shall the tax collector flower forth, and language Upend its papers looking for an entry adequate To the sliced smell of budding Poplars. The sausage man will contrive Once more to block the sidewalk with his truck And though it's illegal to idle one's engine For more than three minutes, every one of us will idle Like hell. After all that's happened. We're all That's left. In fall, the Arctic tern will fly 12,500 miles to Antarctica as it did every year You were alive. It navigates by the sun and stars It tracks the earth's magnetic fields Sensitively as a compass needle and lives On what it finds. I don't understand it either
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