The storks are coming now
white specks in the silent sky.
They had gone north seeking
fairer climes to build their homes
when here was raining.

They are back with me now
spirits of the wind,
beyond the gods’ confining hands
they go north and west and east,
instinct guiding.

But willed by the gods
I’m sitting on this rock
watching them come and go
from sunrise to sundown,
with the spirit urging within.

And urging, a red pool stirs,
and each ripple is
the instinct’s vital call,
a desire in a million cells
confined.

O God of the gods and me,
shall I not heed
this prayer-bell call,
the noon angelus,
because my stork is caged
in singed hair and dark skin?