Year after year the geese come,
                                    and go,

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.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light

November 26, 2019

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