Reverse Migration
By Anne Cowie
July 15, 2023
July 15, 2023
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So we beat on, boats against the current,
borne back ceaselessly into the past. -- F. Scott Fitzgerald I
The sandhill cranes pass through Nebraska in the spring and Wisconsin in the fall. They feast on corn in farmers’ fields during the day, roost in marshes at night. Cackling their prehistoric calls, they crash land into the sunset. Scientists say they are moved by the changing of the light, the shortening and lengthening of days— or maybe some magnetic field in their heads that guides them up the rivers, through snow squalls, past lightning. II Our German ancestors took the slow ship across the ocean. They loaded up their lives in steamer trunks— books, linens, the scowling bust of Beethoven— stood at the coaming by the frothy waves, then headed up the river on a steamboat to St. Paul. My great-grandmother played with her dolls, watched sun-struck eagles soar above the hills. III In Berlin, my daughter guides her daughters through the cobbled streets, past stucco walls. They chatter nursery songs in rhymes I cannot understand, lost words reclaimed. What ancient light has drawn her in reverse? IV Lindens shed their golden leaves before the day turns dark. Inside, we kneel to play with wooden blocks. Above us hangs my mother's portrait as a child, knees crossed beneath her dark blue velvet dress. I have brought that dress, smooth its folds, pin the fraying lace along its sleeves. It's yours now. V In my dream, the wedding is about to start. I count out pearls, drape them around her neck. We stand before the mirror, its silvered glass reflects her, reflects us. |
Anne Cowie lives in Minneapolis.