At first I thought they were flying north.
Then west.
I tried to get my bearings.
They doubled back and over themselves, weaving bird
through bird, without direction, but with
purpose; twenty, fifty, a few hundred:
squawking greetings like so many Asian tourists,
or relatives in friendly arguments
about the best route to take,
circling, finally landing,
a cascade of wings and bodies into the water,
gathering their numbers to divide again into perfect Vs, the arrows
that point towards warmer climes.
I laughed with them, an
outsider who gets not the joke
but the intonation,
wished them a safe journey,
and turned north
towards home.
Oh, this is beautiful and warm and friendly. I love the imagery of loud tourists or arguing families. Thank you for posting :)
ReplyDeleteI posted this on my blog, but I'll leave it here too:
ReplyDeleteThe Wild Goose
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TsOir-k12js
I do so love this, a bit of the mess and the warmth of humanity reflected in nature.
ReplyDeleteHave you read the Magicians yet? The first book? It's making me look at geese in a whole new way. Your poem adds to that, and I'll remember it the next time I see them flying.
ReplyDeleteIt's like I'm seeing and hearing with you. Really beautiful, Justine. You are a woman of many talents.
ReplyDeleteI'm sure they aren't on their way here. Brrrr --- it's minus 16!