Is there anything in this life
more beautiful
than wild geese
flying?

Casual heaving of wings through empty air,
—numerous and precise—
floating over or landing upon
open fields, composed lakes.

Miraculous. Natural. Flawless.

Their purpose beyond me
or my ego.
A purpose so ingrained in each
hollow call…

I was but walking
when I witnessed
an ode to obscurity.
A single goose, drifting
atop still, black water.
The breeze had the bite of early spring,
or late fall
and clouds let scape a drizzle
just enough to lay weight. To disguise chaos.
The solemn serenity of the scene,
ripped soul from confinement.
In my isolation, there was no need for tears
for the bird embodied
all that could be said or wept…
beautiful tragedy, beautiful
life.

From the floor of this earth
I think myself something
spontaneous—a ceaseless soliloquy.
Certainly will I fly…
Certainly will I drift upon cold, black water.

From dawning to conclusion,
they never cease
to be magnificent, eloquent,
poetry.