Just north of Valley Falls
  rust mustard hue of
  fading autumn
                chills the marsh
  last storm of
    Canadian geese
  stuns the flyway

      imprinted engines of feathers and cries.

      I wonder how they'll
    thread their way
  how instincts born of spanning
  northern frosts and raw
  walnut air
            navigate interstate
  haze to pinpoints in
  South American distance
  zeroing back with
  each unerring swoop
  to splashdown
                on a mountain lake
  where reeds bend
  mirrored in watery
  reflections
              of their own swaying

    they and the vanishing geese
  a single string
  stirring
            neutron dance
  sifting
          branches of the actual
  surrounding me like
    breath returning
  when everything else
                        is gone.

©2009, Michael Shorb

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