Migration of the Snows and Blues

The silage field empty
of nothing but a honking island
of a thousand snow geese,
I stop for what could be mine.

Overhead hundreds circle,
settle undetectably, safe,
swiftly emptying the sky
of white and grey skeins.

I wait for everyone to land,
walk beauty-hungry and wingless
toward them. Two or three sense
my strange approach and drift.

I step slowly, broad shouldered
with great love and homeless desire
over corn-rich clods to see the island lift.
Today, after you, this is my only power.

Cradling the flock’s racing hearts,
a sparkling surge of countless, prudent v’s
sings one high pitch of blue solidarity
slanted for miles and miles away from me.

2012