We are having a beautiful fall but the days and nights are turning colder; soon all the colorful leaves will be on the ground and the geese will start flying southward.
The Geese
by Jane Mead
slicing this frozen sky know
where they are going—
and want to get there.
Their call, both strange
and familiar, calls
to the strange and familiar
heart, and the landscape
becomes the landscape
of being, which becomes
the bright silos and snowy
fields over which the nuanced
and muscular geese
are calling—while time
and the heart take measure.
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