A skein of wild geese dots the evening sky
Where are they going? I would like to know —
A secret rendez-vous? I must not pry.
Perhaps they’re fleeing from an unknown foe?
“Oh, just heading south,” the lead goose might say,
“Pools and lakes of silver water call us.
Do not interfere, we are on our way.”
Who planned their route without a thought or fuss?
What guiding spirit could command them on?
Instinct some say, but no one really knows.
I watch them vanish, soon they will be gone,
Gone to old haunts, I can only suppose.
The sky is empty now; darkness prevails.
The wild goose song is now a distant wail.
Strow belongs to Rice Lyons’ Wordplay Poetry group at Princeton Senior Center. She is also a painter, specializing in portraiture and Celtic inspired designs.
