I hear the end of summer
in their wild honking,
in the restless language
of their flight.
How on this early morning
in late July,
I have been expecting them.
I visualize them landing noisily,
and resting in the field
of the old elementary school
behind my house-
at least thirty of them
pecking at the dry grass
the way we peck at each day,
looking for a morsel to savor.
A gaggle of geese,
the morning sunlight
illuminating their brown backs,
long black necks stretching up,
beaks nipping at pieces of cornflower sky.
I admire how they understand
when it is time to go,
to proceed on their journey.
And as I drink my coffee,
I imagine my large awkward body
taking flight,
slipping into a streamlined V,
the grace of flying by no other compass
than the sun’s changing light-
the genetic disposition to migrate south,
the honking and the knowing.

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