Jubilant
It would seem that they know
exactly where they are going
in their great unflappable flapping
and commotion. It would seem
that they have already left
our earth-bound world behind.
Honking up the Lordly Hudson
in a perfect V, churning
the chill air. Their wings are egg beaters,
their necks, not so elegant as a swan’s,
are comically outstretched
like Wile E. Coyote on the run.
But wait, they are flying north
not south— toward the approaching
winter, toward shortening days,
into the white teeth of the snow.
I want to tell them to turn around,
to go back where they came from.
But no, it’s already too late.
And the geese are jubilant
as if it is enough simply to fly,
as if the sky were its own sufficient
destination, and any direction
is as good as any other.
Editor’s Note: This poem’s focus on joy is a theme difficult to find these days, but always welcome.
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