The geese are flying like bits of knotted string in the sky.
All at once, with comments made only to one another,
they have lifted from the fields and gathered
wing-on-wing like a rush of water falling,
like an ache in the bones,
like a thread that never breaks but weaves
upon itself, fragile and impeccable,
season after season,
moon after moon,
gunshot after gunshot.
The geese are flying like a saga
recounted by the fire of a setting sun.
Amid the words, they don't look down.
The geese are flying like sentence fragments,
like unfinished poems,
like every hope ever wished for
and just as tender, shouldering the wind,
their wingbeats creaking like an old book
falling open to a page written by the loblollies
below, tangled in flatland.
The geese are flying like my heart breaking
while it sings.