Visitors arrive in my woods and stay far too briefly
in all their rush and glory.
They arrive like bandits in a flurry of feathers.
I drink in the adventure and strength of their travels
While they chatter about snow and winds to the north
And chirp about berries and fresh water to the south.
I am envious of their positive outlook on their forced transition
and envious of their camaraderie at the water dish.
They exchange stories of frozen and crisp sunsets
and tales of immovable like-a-bad-penny owls at dusk.
The wise old ones caution the new travelers about
distractions and procrastination and long farewells
as they shove their stronger bodies closer to the rim.
Then, if I blink they are gone and onto the rest of their expedition.