They flap their wings in flocks,
Where to? They are flying home.
Fear in their eyes and despair in their wings
They see the crimson turn into grey.
Westward they need to go,
Towards the orange ball that guides them home,
But the sun with all its might,
Can’t shine any bright as it hides behind the clouds.
The strong winds like agents of disservice,
Push them away, far away,
Their stomachs churn, their wings shiver,
Their eyes turn glassy as they look ahead.
They will not reach home, not tonight,
They will sleep on foreign beds.
Those that left early must have reached,
Curling up with their loved ones they must be.
But not them, not tonight,
As the wind cuts through their wings,
Tomorrow the sun shall rise again,
But will home still be westward?
