Appearing in the southern sky each Spring, as if by magic from the clouded sun, they travel North on still and quiet wing to make new life, where their’s was once begun. One by courageous one at first they pass then two and three, and then in groups they come, until the sky is speckled with such mass of wonder that the watcher is struck dumb. For hours at the border, passport in hand, entangled in a queue I watch them go. Who, flying free, can quickly cross the land while I and my possessions wait below, a silk wrapped bundle in a web of greed, frustrated by the things I think I need.