I ice my head bump and watch the Thistle Bush
full of roosting Monarchs enroute to that 23-acre spot in Mexico,
a 3,200 mile, 3-generation trip.
They’re like those savants who get whacked in the head
and suddenly can play the piano, do math, paint landscapes-
skills buried in ancestral DNA?
I move the ice pack and wince,
but I’m cheered at the prospect of becoming a skilled watercolorist mayhap,
or another Pablo Casals.