They hung out all summer around
the ever-shrinking pool of water
by the supermarket, with a handful
of ducks and some out-of-place gulls.
This tiny flock of Canada geese
lifted off early in the morning and
would return at dusk, sweeping low
over the late home-bound commuters
on Route 9. You can hear their
calls if you turn down the noise
in your car and in your daydreamy mind.
If you step outside some October day,
when the twelve decide to join
the hundred or so who soar above
the low autumn clouds, you can hear
their honks, quiet, louder, quiet again,
as they head for home, too.
There are the nights I’ve heard
that same crescendo, fainter though.
Faint enough, almost, for my heart to
drown it out. That’s when I shiver,
not because these autumn nights
draw a mortal cold around my shoulders,
or because a ghostly stream of Canadas
in red-eye flight to the Chesapeake,
suddenly breaks the clouds, drawing
silhouette strings across Moon’s face.
Their call, rolling ocean waves cresting
on the beach, then receding, carrying
and floating away memories, this
foam-cradled flotsam, of another year,
in the downwind flight to each
our own winter.
A long-needed free-write, brought on by the desire to spread my own creative wings again and the sight of an amorphous wedge of geese headed mostly southward today.