The Hooded Warbler and the Fortress

Inside the brick walls of Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas, a Hooded Warbler flicked through the shadows, foraging by the water feature as though a fountain could replace a forest.

 

He was far from home, trying to survive: wings quick, tail flashing, hunger outweighing his desire to migrate. Stronger warblers don’t stop here.

 

Hopefully, he found enough nourishment and strength to continue his perilous journey.

 

But let’s be honest. This is a tiny warbler in a giant Civil War fort in the middle of the ocean. To him, this wasn’t a pit stop; it was a clerical error. Like booking a nonstop flight to Cincinnati and waking up in Alcatraz.

 

Did he leave the island? Did he make it to his breeding grounds? He didn’t leave a word. Because warblers, inconsiderate little migrants that they are, never do.

 

Couplet:

He flitted through arches, a migrant misplaced,

The ocean surrounds him, his future erased.

 

Moral:

Hope carries farther than wings, unless you fly straight into a fort.

 

 

Done