White grace floats the lake, rippling in icy torrents
of another Trump tirade.
A stopover in migration, a congregation
of reacquaintance-feeding-
They paddle in silent choreography, know nothing
of deportations, hate-vengeance-greed.
Know to stay clear of marsh grass, where alligators
nest-hunt-eat more than needed.
Their long-bowed faces remember loss—how easy
to destroy a nest than to build one.
They glide into flight formation. Broad webbed feet
flapflapflap in domino percussion.
Snowy wings underscore the black of mourning.
They fly away.
Catherine Arra is a native of the Hudson Valley in upstate New York, where she lives with wildlife and changing seasons until winter, when she migrates to the Space Coast of Florida. Arra teaches part-time and facilitates local writing groups. She is the author of four full-length collections and four chapbooks. Recent work appears in Unleash Lit., Eclectica Magazine, LitBreak Magazine, Poem Alone, and The Ekphrastic Review.
