An annual event, the geese overhead, in Fall going, in Spring coming home...
No matter how many or how often,
We still rush to see geese, more geese,
And still more. We hear them
Announcing their intentions, a noise
We have learned to wake up for.
My wife again, an annual rush,
Flies through the kitchen’s open door,
Her flanneled gown brushes the frost
That over-night crisped the long grass.
She smiles upward into October’s sun.
I stumble after her, looking for those high vees
Rising over the pines, creasing the sky.
Another winter pushes the geese before it,
But not before we praise them for their foresight.
Unwilling to believe home is anywhere else,
We envy them their courage and hope
That they will soon return.
i started with 'crossing the street' and in reading more, i've come to appreciate your realistic approach to the simplest observances and always with that wonderful 'metaphoric' touch...nice writing douglas
They are somehow, magical birds. It's hard to believe that in the 1920s Canadian geese almost became extinct. When I visited my brother's home on the St. Joseph River near Elkhart Indiana, the whole area is overrun with nesting geese during the summer.
I am fortunate here in suburban Houston, to see them flying over almost daily from fall to spring because they winter in the Katy area.
We all hope that they will return every year forever.
Ron
Reviewed by RWE SAYS BYE (Reader)
Reviewed on November 2, 2013
Your realism lends scope to the v-shaped vistas of possibility, evincing an audible aura of natural innocence, at once both innate and somehow alien to all who ponder such annual migrations and wonder at their perennial prescience and how much they presage the forever that is now here nowhere but may yet be here in some eternal now thereafter again and again... like the geese.
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I am fortunate here in suburban Houston, to see them flying over almost daily from fall to spring because they winter in the Katy area.
We all hope that they will return every year forever.
Ron
Good one, Douglas.
Roger