My Little Poet

B was sitting on his stability ball in front of a window this morning, bouncing, staring out and talking to himself while I did some house work.  After about a half an hour he said, "Mama, I wrote a song.  Do you want to hear it?" "Yes!" I answered.  He did not sing his song; he spoke it.  I would call it a poem, but he insists that it is a song:

Migration, migration.

Like a Winter vacation.

You'll find lots of food

To avoid starvation.

But when you go on

This big migration,

Just never forget -

It's God Creation.

And that's migration!