Bold the sun rose up
on Saturday and I stood at the window celebrating
the fat goose who stood on one leg at the edge of the dock.

I moved to the woods
where I sat all day reading poetry (Wendell Berry's Leavings),
wondering between poems when I might take flight again
or whether, this time, my flying days were really over. 

Then the sun went down
on Saturday and I climbed beneath the covers much earlier
than I am prone to do, nestled in, content, yet waiting

Like the silent goose
who stood perched on the edge of comfort, wishing like me
he might find a kindred spirit to join him on the way
and they rise triumphantly, wing to wing, forever,

All the while knowing
as do I that it is the walking and the wading, the daring
dive and the steep upward climb into the skies, for which 

He and I were born. 
I lay there still as the world before it breaks open
and everything you thought you knew has changed.
For a moment I did not know myself or where I was in time,

And I closed my eyes.
Surrendered to the familiar silence, I drifted into sleep, into
that kingdom of glassy waters and endess sky where we fly.