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by Matthew King
The others go. We've seen it all unfold
the same, the same again. We know the time
when only we'll have stayed to know the cold.
They'll bring back feathers soaked in scents of lime
and salt and sand—we smell no sense in these.
We take no part in fall departure schemes;
we have no heart for hearts afraid to freeze.
Surviving winter's simpler than it seems.
Wing by beating wing we'll measure out
the fullness of the hunger moon's duration,
spanning space they grant by their vacation.
All that's left we couldn't be without.
Ask who stays with things if you would know
which ones to keep—and let the others go.