It becomes dark.

My parents walk down the overgrown trail to the lake shore in North Park.

At this season of the year, migration birds fly to the lake.

Gliding, hovering, dancing and singing.

Shape fading into the dark wood,
movement reflected on the water,
songs floating under the clouds.

I hear that leaves are murmuring under my parents' feet:

"Farewell to the birds! They promise to come here next year.

Farewell to the old couple! We don't know when to see them again..."