Year after year the geese come,
and here they are again, gliding over
the turning leaves, turning my head.
Sometimes regrets come honking, I can
hear them but I can’t see them.
Honking. Or hopes,
honking, rowing smoothly through the air.
These birds will fly thousands of miles
uncharted but known.
I long, don’t we all,
for that bird way of knowing: not certainty,
but an untroubled harmony with the way things are,
a way of happening.
Amazing, the way from here to there,
and how they find it.
For the moment they settle on a quiet spot
in the stream, and find food on the murky bottom.
November 26, 2019