My hands broke sticks from the fallen limb

Their voices reached me before they did

They took up the sky

The largest flock of migrant geese I’ve seen, and I stopped and watched

I asked if they were going to Canada, and my imagination failed

Before my eyes they unraveled

The followers flowing up to take the lead

while they called each other by name

They spoke of Mary Oliver

and freedom and purpose and dreams

Of gratitude

Of a long wait through rain for spring

I wished them a safe journey


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