Migration

It's an old muscle,
Rusty and weak, and wasted
From illness, long hours and months spent
Just struggling to breathe.
An old muscle, not accustomed to movement,
But it will grow again, if fed.
When winter comes, it will hobble me.
Even now I can hear the cries
As the milk-white hounds tear through the sky,
Kicking up the wind.  Get in their way
And they'll tear you to pieces before they even
See you--oh, that part is true, yes--or what's worse,
They'll take you with them to the place
Behind the north wind.

There's not much there.  A hard floor,
Cool on your cheek if you have to lie down,
Shuddering until the feeling passes;
A window on the empty sky, a bed like a black hole:
Not much there.  It's just a place to rest.

And if you rest, and do nothing, nothing,
But remain something,
The dogs, as crazy as ever, will take you
(not home, but) back to where you were.
You wake up stiff and thin, to find the season changed,
Strands of thick white scar tissue binding your fingers together,
Your muscles turned to smoke.
Now, forever, you'll hear the dogs overhead, and wonder
Who their master is.