Whip-poor-will

I am a refugee of a homeland that burned away

I have adapted

Now, where I am is home, too

I have a family and I blend in,

Though it sometimes feels like wearing someone else’s sweater, and socks. And well worn boots

The trails aren’t as wild here

The roads don’t wander the way I remember

The birds are quieter here

I haven’t seen a bear in years

Or heard coyotes sing from the center of their pack,

In a cabin surrounded by red pine sentinels and cedar swamps

My boys, in the right light of shining moments, give me a glimpse of the home I lost

Their eyes dance with mischief, their hands find the small wild things hiding

They are as close as I can get

My home burned away

All that remains of what made me is

A bag of ashes kept in a box with my fathers name