The Great Migration
Published in
Feb 8, 2024
Clouds of butterflies descend and lift
On the edge of the Rift Valley —
A swirling, flitting gift
They follow magnetic fields
With a tiny compass in a tiny mind
I don’t know why
They take flight in the magical migration
I know when —
After long Kenyan rains
When flowers are full of sustenance
The butterflies are bitter
Birds let them pass unscathed
unlike the termites and locust swarms
snacks for many creatures
They arrive, they dazzle, they disappear
Not to return for many years
