#95
Geese land in the pond like hours in time,
Unconsciously tuck wings under and glide
In sequential and unwavering lines.
After flying day and night they've arrived,
With a few turning back along the way,
Only to reach the same pond the same day.
Each bird starts a ripple in the water
((They're not quite aware of at that moment))
That wind nor rain but only shore can stop,
Though each ripple will each ripple alter.
Each perturbation of the pond is spent
In the moment one goose flaps wing and hops
Toward the sky, frantically seconded
By the flock, as though all futures beckoned.
