Frost fringes the last beech leaves.
The ferns are buried in snow.
It seems too late for geese
But scores of honking vees
Do not think so.
They fill the crisp cool blue
For hours. They fly at the sun
With collective confidence. They lead, they follow,
Exchange. In all the flickering multitude
Only one
Lone bird flusters back
To frozen country. From point to point
Of the scattered powdered hemlocks
It squawks and listens and squawks;
From pond to pond
It calls some unanswering thing.
Between the pulse and echo
Of each urgent beckoning,
The whistle of its wings
Is cold as snow.
From Tower Poetry, Vol. 58 #2, Winter Edition 2009-2010
