The River Geese: Solstice 2011
For six months, a dozen well-dressed geese
with green cards from Canada, have talked
apart the sky above my house, wearing
smooth the air between the open Willamette
River and the foraging fields of Fern Ridge.
Now, in the dawn dark, I hear them high
up over the bike path cottonwoods,
coming my way. I imagine
what I cannot see–twenty four wings
beating tip to tip, veed out
like talkative angels. I can almost understand
the jokes, the chuckles, as they come faint,
pass over 340 N. Grand loud,
and, still in strong confabulation,fade
south to Skinner