For weeks they have anticipated
this long flight in all its artistry,
effort, and black-eyed dedication.
How Canada geese thoroughly plan
to elude the angry, frozen face
of Winter, spinning on its edge
like a terrible, crooked coin of silver
that gambles with the lives of smaller birds.
+++
The time to depart has unwrapped itself.
Onion-skin thin leaves have blown away
like feathers or fine-lined intentions.
The geese’s legs jerk slightly in their sleep,
anxious to take off again, to lift away.
Each night is spent drowsing on park lawns
or golf courses, when possible,
inches apart in a dark, hopeful huddle.
+++
Golden-brown light rises and steams
like a runway made of dreams, fog,
and slow awakenings.
Uniquely unified, geese fly willingly
through low layer of sepia-misted morning,
like lace on the skirt of autumn.
Their formation is a descrescendo sign,
the summation of summer songs, waning.
+++
Their wings spread to tell the story
of winters past,
of a future world too cold for their comfort.
They leave imminent storms behind,
wing up and away, with a trumpeting honk
or chorus of more muddy honks, to announce
their progress and power,
their ache to aim higher.
