migrations
i barely stave off fear
to face urban rush hour
in a two-ton car powered
on four hefty tires.
tired.
making it to work
is a struggle
and then I return home,
a concrete biome.
She weighs only as much as two peas,
a couple of flimsy sticky notes,
a postage stamp;
air currents and her determination
carry her tiny mass.
Spring and she has returned
from a mountain of sacred fir
in central Mexico –
a migration on marigold wings.
Her heart has bridged the divide
of 2000 wide miles.
i get in my car,
gird myself with a deep breath,
back out of the driveway.
Invincible,
she prepares to lay hundreds of eggs
in waiting milkweed
one at a time.
Todos somos viajeros,
pero Ella es La Verdadera Reina.
We are all travelers,
but She is the True Queen:
Her majesty, the Monarch.
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beautiful ode to the Monarch