Migratory

There was a small wrinkled man sitting in my backyard this morning. I could only mumble a quick hello, he responded with a nod. That night, after a long day at work, there was a second one, sitting on the lowest branch of the elm. They stared south, up at the sky.

I joined in, used my hand as a ridge over my eyes to make them believe I was confident and unfazed by this situation. The dog walked around them sniffing, jowls trembling, unsure if he should bark or try to get pet. The next morning, they were gone.

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