Sixteen geese arrived in spring
and settled in
as if they planned to stay,
but winter’s fast approaching and they left weeks ago.
I should have got to know them.
I should have learned their names.
If I had, then maybe, just maybe,
they would have taken me along.
They could have taught me how to fly
and now I’d be among them,
flapping and honking and gliding
through pockets of air inside the V.
I hate the winter. I long for the south.
And I guess I’ve always dreamed
of life on the flyway, free and breezy,
soaring along the Atlantic corridor.
I could have been of use.
I have tricks to teach them too,
like how to read a map, catch fish,
and tell stories around a camp fire.
I would have only asked one favor:
a detour to see a friend.
Can you imagine his total dismay
at seeing me and sixteen others
alighting on his lawn?
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