The goose feather
like a white amulet
was found intact
in my mothballed jacket.
In a winter storm
it was put safely there
as we watched
that sonic cloud lift
geese with fluting cries
from the corn field
their flexible necks
gleaned amongst the stubble.
Hunger and fatigue
led them to this
way station, near the marsh,
river, and horizon’s curve,
as a turbulent beating
of extended wings
lifted them, watching,
looking long, as they rose,
in bodies aligned in time
and desire, they mated
for life we knew, as we
watched them vanish.
Grey Sparrow Journal 