Poems like to have a destination for their flight. They are homing pigeons.
A homing pigeon must love her home; otherwise she will not wish to return to it.
Criticisms are like homing pigeons. They always return home.
I am a Topshop homing pigeon! I can walk into the Oxford Circus branch and ferret out the best bits in minutes.
This is a marvel of the universe: To fling a thought across a stretch of sky-- Some weighty message, or a yearning cry, It matters not; the elements rehearse Man's urgent utterance, and his words traverse The spacious heav'ns like homing birds that fly Unswervingly, until, upreached on high, A quickened hand plucks off the message terse.