Three small moments of spring make up this short poem. A field sparrow returns and sings its rising trill. A sapsucker drills neat rows of holes around a hickory trunk. Then the poem turns to "you," someone dozing on a porch while the creek runs nearby.
The title, "Migrants," ties these scenes together. The birds are obvious migrants, but the last line suggests the sleeper hears "other migrant tongues" too, so the creek and the birdsong become a kind of travelling language arriving with the season. The speaker doesn't announce a big feeling. Instead, the attention is the feeling: a quiet pleasure in noticing, and a gentle sense of welcome toward what returns.
The mood is calm, relaxed, and a little drowsy. Short lines and plain, exact details, like the "small, pink beak," make the reader slow down and listen alongside the napping figure on the porch.