All day a lone goose stands on the floating
dock. He nibbles at the water—stretches,

preens—but does not fly. No sign

of the flock that was there the day
before. I worry he's injured or maybe

lost his mate. The tide comes in, raising

the wooden slats that hold him, then
retreats. Ducks crowd by and leave again.

The sun moves down the river, tossing

amber light across the lower layer of clouds.
Still there, now a silhouette against the glowing

sky. There is no lonelier sound than the cry

of just-one-goose—unless you hear another
from further down the river. I can't be sure.

I only know the goose is gone now.

That when I look again, I see a pair
of shadows wing their way along

the river's silver surface.