Birds find roosts, fill their beaks with
the cries and songs taught

by their mothers and fathers
on their very first day. When they forget the song,

they forget their migratory route as well—
and like monarchs, they freeze in the cold.

I make temporary habitats for them
out of illusions left behind by others who

hitched their flags to other post-apocalyptic wagons
hoping to find some room for their delusions

in pockets full of holes. I want to help them remember,
but I have lost my to-do list

along with my directions home.
This solar eclipse isn’t helping—

hides all the street signs—
and I never learned braille.

Audrey Howitt lives and writes poetry in the San Francisco Bay Area. She sings opera, teaches voice, and is a licensed attorney and licensed marriage and family therapist. Ms. Howitt has been published in Academy of the Heart and Mind, Washington Square Review, Panoply, Hecate Magazine, Spillwords Press, Nymphs Poetry Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Big Windows Review, and The White Cresset Arts Journal among others.