drifting season

Between two trees we can string
our drifting season,
burrow notches without fear
of forgetting when weather
fills our footfall.

Our heads may sag to stave the cold,
forsaking rooftops we've been
under but never upon. But between
two ends of a borrowed book
are pages on which another
hand has lingered.

These, our migrations, merely retool
the hitch. The tethers we lash are
feather and light. If arms should
return to you, they will.
The forage is never spoiled by
the failures of standing still.