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.