by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The lips of the rain,
soft at first,
become
cold and stiff
from last night’s
freezing temperatures.
Out on the lake
The black-winged Pelicans
fish in huddles.
They are restored
to their ancient places,
the Great Lakes.
If only we could restore
the people to their rightful places,
bringing young and old back
to their ancient lands.
Instead millions are pushed out
from wars and famines
into a great movement
like schools of fish,
swarming,
moving like a great wheel
across the face of the deep.
