Migration

charcoal on paper, 16 x 20

Hope is a thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea:

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.                           Emily Dickinson