Two dull mornings in a row
I’ve seen a ray of geese
slant up to intercept the morning light
And push it southward.
For a month, or so, they’ll push
‘Til we begin to feel the loss,
The whitened tones of their own inner suns
a final glimpse
Of what they lift and sing toward.
Resigned to a seasonal country
I wonder, behind a mist of breath,
what choices remain.
To pack my life and follow them
or instead hole up for a gust
Of pallid toil, revert to a life of the mind,
Lazing in the light
Unwinding in the warmth
[Though pressed by chill night
into a micro-cosmos of two-headed
laughter and the sound of four slow feet
against snow-soft pavement,
with breath into cold air
like radio-waves from the blackest possible source,
there was yet the extension that is a place to go,
and the ambient silence of two, warm, in winter.]
Gleaming through the chaotic grey, the geese again,
but air, this day, so thick
with fog they lift, they rise,
And then are gone like a mist-chance.
So should I try
to flap and fly with them,
Eclipse some groundling’s dawn and see beyond
A green world glowing?
Or weather November’s ambivalence knowing
No season not yours.