The days shorten, light and leaves
go golden, and the haunting cries
of migrating geese float over the trees.

Our grey gander stands near the pond,
beak tipped to the sky. Other grey and white
heads lift, tilt to catch the receding notes.

Long after the rest have returned
to grazing, the gander remains
gazing north. He stretches his wings

and takes a few steps, as if calculating
the mechanics of the journey, then turns
back to resume his watch.

[I don’t want to make this a habit, but yesterday was Quite A Day, and I was too tired to post this.]

Constancy

There was a noise—a silence even—
that would not go away. What was the last thing

you searched for? It’s always the first
day of something, something ungraspable

and a little distorted, that draws back
whenever you begin to get close.