Stumbling along behind my dog,
shoulders slumped and head down
as though arthritic knees had
drawn all my energy to themselves--
Their honking drew my eyes up,
skyward, to where the geese
traveled to the North
though it is January, and cold.
Geese in flight are a flock,
on foot a gaggle,
as though in air and on land
they are two different species.
Waddling, pooping, annoying down,
artful, majestic up in the air,
leaving a gentle, quiet, slalom wake
each separated from the others by two "gooselengths."
in almost perfect order and rhythm.
I am told the goose in "front" is not the strongest,
wisest, or the one who knows the way.
It is the one whose turn it is to lead, to break the wind.
They go off honking, and i continue our stumbling walk.
I don't look at geese enough,
nor sky, nor the life that lies behind "life."
The geese, my teachers, leave quickly.