It’s late enough to hear the moon
humming to itself: a Mexican goodnight, music
in step with the hour from border songs
to a lost accordion. Where does everyone go
in the dark? One deep breath
of desert and a leap
to El Norte. There go the melodies,
chasing cars along the Loop road
that are tired now from running, that want
to settle down and rest, want
to know where they belong.
They’re out of gas and dream
of floating through the clouds
where clocks have no dominium.
Just when tears come
to be expected there’s an outbreak
of Ay,Ay, Ay and romance;
no need to know the language
to ride along, it’s international for memories
in flight. In tonight’s migration
half a million birds cross the local sky:
grosbeaks, corridos, warblers
and a polka, too high and dark to see
but even close to sleep the radio
is tuned to the stars and broadcasting
melancholy that smiles.
David Chorlton
.