THE MIGRATORS

Every year I watch them,

those folks that pack and go

by the end of October

to escape the winter’s cold,

to avoid those famed nor’easters

biting wind, four feet of snow,

to hide from the ghost panther

that comes growling from the north

but his growl is a lot worse than his bite

and it sure seems worth

it to stay here in old Vermont

despite the nip and chill

to see again the winter splendor

on alabaster hills

that in the moonlight softly glow

like pearls, mother of pearl

and snow sculptures carved by the north wind,

as sharp as a knife it swirls,

carving snow into snow angels

and snowy dragons made of ice,

ice maidens, snow post sentinels,

in our winter paradise;

but some folks just seem to migrate,

head south where the sun is hot,

where beaches have white sand, not snow,

where freezing cold it’s not.

They’ll be gone, until winter is over

and like birds, they’ll be back again

following the robin north

with the first news of spring.

They’ll come back for greening up

and stay for the jewel crowned scenes of fall.

They love Vermont as much as I;

It’s home here after all.

but once the leaves start falling

and nights grow cold again

they seem to catch the travel bug

and feet and wings start wandering,

but they’ll be back, yes they’ll be back

when once again it’s spring.