When I was beginning to read I imagined br that bridges had something to do with birds br and with what seemed to be cages but I knew br that they were not cages it must have been autumn br with the dusty light flashing from the streetcar wires br and those orange places on fire in the pictures br and now indeed it is autumn the clear br days not far from the sea with a small wind nosing br over dry grass that yesterday was green br the empty corn standing trembling and a down br of ghost flowers veiling the ignored fields br and everywhere the colors I cannot take br my eyes from all of them red even the wide streams br red it is the season of migrants br flying at night feeling the turning earth br beneath them and I woke in the city hearing br the call notes of the plover then again and br again before I slept and here far downriver br flocking together echoing close to the shore br the longest bridges have opened their slender wingsbr br William Stanley Merwinbr br