A sky dense with snow geese
black-tipped wings wide
an ensemble inches apart
yet they maintain their distance
without collision—onyx eyes,
orange beaks, necks extended,
bodies intent on the way forward.
Doesn’t the loud sound or current
of flapping disrupt them?
O, to be that concentrated, united,
each a perfect mirror of the other.
4 thoughts on "Winging It"
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Lovely thought, Karen!
Thank you, Nancy!
I like this poem
Thank you, Pat!